


The Girl That Shouldn't Be: Book Four

by skarletfyre



Series: The Girl That Shouldn't Be [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Siblings, Canon Compliant, Canon Rewrite, Gen, Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2019-08-23 03:00:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 82,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16610606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skarletfyre/pseuds/skarletfyre
Summary: Violet Potter lay flat on her back in bed, breathing hard as though she had been running. She had awoken from a vivid dream with a gasp of fear, the talons of which still had an icy grip on her heart. Something moved in the darkness beside her and Harry, Violet’s twin brother, sat up. In the faint, misty orange light that was filtering through the curtains from the street lamp outside their window, she could see that he was holding a hand to his forehead.“Harry?” Violet whispered, and Harry dropped his hand at once.“Sorry,” he said, just as quietly. “Didn’t meant to wake you.”Violet sat up in the narrow bed the two of them shared, supported by her elbows, and frowned at her brother.“Were you dreaming too?”* * * * * * * * * * * * * *This is the fourth part of my (for the most part) canon-compliant rewrite of the Harry Potter series, told from the perspective of a character that doesn't exist. Violet Potter is Harry's twin sister. This is, as faithfully as I can make it, the story of what would happen if she were there.





	1. The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go again with the first of the "fat" books! Boy do I have my work cut out for me with this one. In addition to being MUCH longer than the others I've worked on before, I also have to deal with my own continuity changes. Oof.
> 
> I plan to continue this series all the way to the end, through book 7. It's probably going to take me a while, especially now that we've reached this point, but I'll try to update as regularly as possible. If you're just finding this fic, please start from the beginning with Book One!!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Violet Potter lay flat on her back in bed, breathing hard as though she had been running. She had awoken from a vivid dream with a gasp of fear, the talons of which still had an icy grip on her heart. Something moved in the darkness beside her and Harry, Violet’s twin brother, sat up. In the faint, misty orange light that was filtering through the curtains from the street lamp outside their window, she could see that he was holding a hand to his forehead.

“Harry?” Violet whispered, and Harry dropped his hand at once.

“Sorry,” he said, just as quietly. “Didn’t meant to wake you.”

Violet sat up in the narrow bed the two of them shared, supported by her elbows, and frowned at her brother.

“Were you dreaming too?” she asked.

“Yeah . . . d’you remember any of it?”

Violet shook her head, and Harry sighed. She recoiled from the brightness when he clicked on the lamp beside them and watched through narrowed eyes as Harry slipped his glasses onto his face. He scrambled out of bed, crossed the room, opened their wardrobe, and peered into the mirror on the inside of the door. Violet, worried now, tossed back the covers and got up to join him in the mirror.

A pair of skinny fourteen year olds stared back at them; while their faces were very similar, the most identical thing about them were the bright green eyes they both shared. Harry’s stared out from beneath a mop of untidy black hair, sticking up at all angles and looking unruly no matter the occasion, while Violet’s were just visible beneath the sharp line of fringe that covered her forehead. The haircut was new, and it had  _ not _ been Violet’s idea; it made her look like she had a particularly filthy mop trying to eat her head when left to its own devices. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long enough anymore for Violet to pull it back into the short braid she was used to wearing.

But hair wasn’t the only thing that set the twins’ faces apart. Harry had a scar on his forehead that was shaped like a bolt of lightning, which he was currently prodding at with a worried expression on his face.

“You really can’t remember anything?” he said abruptly, his eyes finding Violet’s in the mirror. Again Violet shook her head, but concentrated hard nonetheless, trying to recall anything from the dream before she had awoken. It had seemed so real . . .

The dim picture of a darkened room came to her . . . There had been a snake on the hearth rug . . . a small man called Peter, nicknamed Wormtail . . . and a cold, high voice . . . the voice of Lord Voldemort. Violet felt as though an ice cube had slipped down into her belly at the very thought . . .

“There was an old man . . .” Violet said slowly, doing her best to remember. “And a chair . . . there was something horrible, sitting in the chair . . .”

“Wormtail was there, I think,” Harry muttered. He was still watching her in the mirror, rubbing idly at his scar. “And did you hear that — that voice?”

Violet nodded. “I heard  _ him,” _ she whispered. “Talking about someone they’d killed, him and Wormtail. And someone they were going to kill . . .”

“Me,” said Harry, finally dropping his hand to his side. His mouth was set in a grim line. “They were talking about killing  _ me.” _

Violet shuddered; she couldn’t help it. Her arms came up to wrap around herself despite the lack of chill and looked away from her brother’s eyes, focusing instead on the room around them. She stared around as thought expecting to see something usual there; some sort of sign that the dream had been more than just a dream. As it happened, there were an extraordinary number of usual things in this room. A large wooden trunk was pushed up beneath the window and another stood open at the foot of the bed, revealing a cauldron, a broomstick, black robes, and assorted spellbooks. Rolls of parchment littered that part of the desk that was not taken up by the large, empty in which Harry’s pet owl, Hedwig, was usually perched. On the floor beside the bed a book lay open; Violet had been reading it before she fell asleep last night. The pictures in this book were all moving. Glowing eyes leered out from shadowy illustrations, and gnarled claws and tentacles inched their way across the margins as though reaching for the fingers of the unwary reader.

Violet walked over to the book, picked it up, and watched a drawing of a two-headed snake hiss menacingly up at her. Then she snapped the book shut. After such a horrible dream, now was not the time to dwell on the beasts and monsters that so often held her fascination. She placed the book on the nightstand and sat, watching her brother pace to the window. After glancing briefly out at Privet Drive, Harry came and sat down beside her on the bed, looking troubled. He was still rubbing at his forehead.

Violet knew it wasn’t the pain that bothered him; Harry was the strongest person she knew, and no stranger to pain and injury. He had lost all the bones in his right arm once and had them painfully regrown in a night. The same arm had been pierced by a venomous foot-long fang not long afterward, from the mouth of the same Basilisk that had Petrified Violet. And only last year Harry had fallen fifty feet from an airborne broomstick. The two of them were used to bizarre accidents and injuries; they were unavoidable if you attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and had a knack for attracting a lot of trouble.

So if the pain wasn’t troubling him, that meant it was something else.

“How bad is it?”

“What?” Harry said distractedly.

“Your scar. You’ve been prodding at it since we woke up. Is it bad?”

Harry dropped his hand at once and said, “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it, Vi.”

“Of course I’m worried about it . . . about  _ you. _ It hasn’t hurt for a long time, has it? So why’s it bothering you now?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said defensively. “The last time my scar hurt it was because Voldemort was nearby, but it’s not like he can be  _ here.” _

A heavy silence fell between them, and Violet found herself listening intently. Was she half-expecting to hear a creak of a stair or the swish of a cloak? And then both of them jumped slightly as they heard their cousin Dudley give a tremendous grunting snore from the next room.

Violet and Harry looked at each other with wide, anxious eyes — and then they both smiled sheepishly, embarrassed by how easily they’d been spooked. There was no one in the house with them except for Aunt Petunia and Dudley, and they were plainly still asleep, their dreams untroubled and painless.

Things at Privet Drive were not as they once were.

They Dursleys were the Potter twins’ only living relatives. They were Muggles and, up until recently, had behaved as though magic were an affront to their very way of life, which meant that Harry and Violet were about as welcome in the house as dry rot. Their first ten years of life with the Dursleys were spent in misery; while their cousin Dudley was spoiled rotten, held up on a pedestal, and allowed to do whatever he wanted, the twins were treated as little better than servants (at best) or vermin (at worst). Rather than the second floor bedroom that they shared now, the two of them had been forced to live and sleep in the cupboard under the stairs. They were denied meals, pushed, pulled, and slapped whenever they misbehaved, and otherwise treated as though they did not exist.

Things were still far from perfect, but life at Number 4 had improved greatly now that Uncle Vernon was no longer in the picture.

He had been driven from the house the summer before due in part to Aunt Petunia’s shocking display of personal initiative, and partly due to the fact that Violet had accidentally blown up his sister at the dinner table. It was an ugly, difficult affair that the neighbors took great pleasure in watching through the gaps in their curtains. Uncle Vernon no longer lived with his son and soon-to-be ex-wife; he was renting a flat in London, close to his work, and only showed up every other weekend to take Dudley out to the cinema or the arcade or wherever else it was that Dudley wanted to go. Aunt Petunia, meanwhile, had begun to grudgingly tolerate the twins. Magic and anything associated with Hogwarts was still frowned upon — but unlike Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia preferred to turn a blind eye whenever she walked in on Harry and Violet doing their homework, with writing quills and parchment, in the middle of her spotless kitchen.

Though their tenuous new relationship with Aunt Petunia wasn’t hostile, they still weren’t close by any stretch of the imaginating. Neither Violet nor Harry had been able to confide in their aunt about anything before, particularly about their life in the wizarding world. Thy very idea of going to her when she awoke, and telling her about Harry’s scar hurting, and about their worries about Voldemort, was laughable.

And yet it was because of Voldemort that Harry and Violet had come to live with the Dursleys in the first place. If it hadn’t been for Voldemort, Harry would not have had the lightning scar on his forehead. If it hadn’t been for Voldemort, the twins would still have had their parents . . .

Harry and Violet had been a year old the night that Voldemort — the most powerful Dark wizard for a century, a wizard who been gaining power steadily for eleven years — arrived at their house and killed their father and mother. Voldemort had then turned his wand on Harry; he had performed the curse that had disposed of many full-grown witches and wizards in his steady rise to power — and, incredibly, it had not worked. Instead of killing the small boy, the curse had rebounded upon Voldemort. Harry had survived with nothing but a lightning-shaped cut on his forehead, Violet was completely unharmed, and Voldemort had been reduced to something barely alive. His powers gone, his life almost extinguished, Voldemort had fled; the terror in which the secret community of witches and wizards had lived for so long had lifted, Voldemort’s followers had disbanded, and Harry and Violet Potter had become famous.

It had been enough of a shock for the two of them to discover, on their eleventh birthday, that they were wizards; it had been even more disconcerting to find out that everyone in the hidden wizarding world knew their name. Harry and Violet had arrived at Hogwarts to find that heads turned and whispered followed them wherever they went. But they were used to it now: At the end of this summer, they would be starting their fourth year at Hogwarts, and both of them were already counting the days until they would be back at the castle again.

But there was still a fortnight to go before they went back to school. Violet looked fitfully around their room again, and her eye paused on the pile of birthday cards that had been sent to them by their friends. She was about to suggest that Harry write to his best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, about his scar hurting, but knew at once that he wouldn’t agree. Hermione would worry and recommend a book to consult and Ron would likely panic and tell his whole family about it in an attempt to give advice.

But there were other people that Harry could write to: Albus Dumbledore was the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and wisest person Harry and Violet had ever known. Surely he would have an answer for why Harry’s scar could be hurting in the middle of an otherwise normal night.

Harry, however, was not keen on the idea.

“What would I write to him, Violet?” he said when she voiced her suggestion. “‘Dear Professor Dumbledore, Sorry to bother you, but my scar hurt this morning. Yours sincerely, Harry Potter.’”

“It was just an idea, you don’t have to be an arse about it,” Violet said, slightly stung. She gnawed her bottom lip, and then said, “What about writing to Re— I mean, Professor Lupin?”

Harry scrunched up his face uncomfortably.

“I don’t want to bother him, either. Besides, Vi, he’s  _ your _ godfather, not mine.”

Remus Lupin  _ was _ Violet’s godfather — but he had also spent the previous year teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts classes at Hogwarts, and was sure to know something that could be helpful.

But again, Violet could see the wariness on her brother’s face as he shut down another of her ideas. This time at least Violet knew she deserved it; after all, he was throwing her own words back in her face.

_ “He’s my godfather, Harry, not yours,” _ Violet had said hotly only two weeks before — the day after their shared birthday, Violet had received a long letter from Professor Lupin apologizing that he’d been unable to come and visit them. Their birthday happened to fall on the night of the full moon and Lupin — as had come to light over the course of the previous year — was a werewolf. A completely normal and very kind man for the rest of the month, on each full moon he transformed into a nightmarish beast of fur and claws, a mindless hunter with no memory of his human self. It was his condition that had caused him to retreat from Violet and Harry’s lives after their parents were murdered. Lupin was afraid that his presence would complicate things for them at best and downright endanger them at worst. It had been an extremely hard pill for Violet in particular to swallow at first; after years of being abused and neglected by the Dursleys, it was painful to learn that there was someone else out there who was meant to be looking out for her but had chosen not to. She had forgiven Professor Lupin, however, and was now determined to enjoy as much of his company as possible.

That was going to be a lot easier to do now that she knew for certain he would be teaching at Hogwarts for another year. He wouldn’t be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts any longer, however; a permission form had been included with his letter for students to attend his new class: ‘Beings and Beasts.’ The reason for the permission form had nothing to do with the class’s content. Once Professor Lupin’s condition had been revealed to the school at large, many parents expressed concern about having a werewolf teaching their children. Lupin had offered his resignation to avoid causing a scandal for Dumbledore, but due in no small part to Harry and Violet lobbying for him to remain and rallying their fellow students to his support, the school governors had allowed him to remain on the staff. With the condition, of course, that parents must consent to let him teach their children. As Violet was his goddaughter, Lupin had taken the liberty of signing her permission slip himself.

Her hurtful words had come out after Harry expressed disappointment that Lupin had only included him in a brief postscript —  _ “and tell Harry I said happy birthday as well!” _ — while the bulk of the letter was addressed mainly to Violet. She knew, of course, that she was wrong to have said that. But it did nothing to wash away the sense of possessive pride Violet felt toward Lupin. He was  _ her _ godfather, and hers alone. She’d never had something all to herself before — how could she be expected not to be a little selfish about it?

And it wasn’t like Harry was all on his own, either; he had a godfather as well.

“Well, write to Sirius, then,” Violet said. “You told me he was able to get letters now, and I know he’d love to hear from you, Harry.”

Harry’s expression brightened at once, like a lightbulb had gone off in his head.

“Yeah!” he said excitedly. “Of course I can write to Sirius! I can’t believe I forgot . . .”

Violet smiled sadly as Harry leapt up from the bed, hurried across the room, and sat down at the desk. It wasn’t unusual that Harry wouldn’t have thought about Sirius straight away — after all, he had only found out that Sirius was his godfather two months ago.

The reason for Sirius’ complete absence from Harry and Violet’s lives was even more complicated that Professor Lupin’s — Sirius had been in Azkaban, the terrifying wizard prison guarded by creatures called dementors, sightless, soul-sucking fiends who had come to search for Sirius at Hogwarts when he had escaped. But Sirius had been innocent — the murders for which he had been convicted were committed by Peter Pettigrew, also called Wormtail, Voldemort’s supporter, whom everyone had believed dead for twelve years. The truth came to light only the previous year, though Wormtail had managed to escape from custody before he could be taken in by the Ministry of Magic.

For one glorious hour, Harry and Violet had believed that they were leaving the Dursleys at last, because Sirius had offered them a home once his name had been cleared — Wormtail’s escape had complicated matters, but there were enough witnesses of his survival to throw doubt on the validity of Sirius’s conviction. How could a man be guilty of a murder if the supposed victim was still alive?

Sirius Black was now currently facing a proper trial — something he’d never had before — and well on his way to exoneration. His face was once again on the cover of the wizarding newspaper,  _ The Daily Prophet, _ but he was no longer shown as a filthy, screaming madman. The years in Azkaban may have ravaged his former good looks, but he had been cleaned up and dressed finely, and something of the handsome young man he used to be now shone through the gaunt face and dark, sunken eyes. His alleged innocence was proving to be something of a scandal for the Ministry, and Violet took great pleasure in reading through the articles decrying the lack of fair trial twelve years ago, the shoddy evidence that led to his conviction, and the horrific imprisonment of an innocent man.

Both Harry and Violet had written several letters to Sirius since they had been back at Privet Drive, but only in the last week had he been given the freedom to write back. He was being treated well — far better than he had ever been treated in the last twelve years — and had was very hopeful and excited to have his name cleared at last. With Dumbledore testifying on his behalf, the public opinion on him had shifted drastically.

With Harry busy scribbling away and a few precious hours left before sunrise, Violet flopped backward onto the bed and allowed her eyes to fall shut. The icy fear that had woken her in the first place had subsided at last, and the haze of sleep was quickly beginning to fill her mind.

Violet didn’t wake again until several hours later, when Harry was finally sending Hedwig off with his letter to Sirius.

 

By the time Harry and Violet arrived in the kitchen, Aunt Petunia and Dudley were already seated at the table. Neither of them looked up as the twins entered or sat down. Aunt Petunia was cutting a grapefruit into quarters, her lips pursed over her prominent teeth.

Dudley looked furious and sulky, and somehow seemed to be taking up even more space than usual. This was saying something, as he always took up an entire side of the square table by himself. When Aunt Petunia put a quarter of unsweetened grapefruit onto Dudley’s plate with a tremulous “There you are, Diddy darling,” Dudley glowered at her. His life had taken a most unpleasant turn in more ways than one since the summer began.

Dudley was deeply unhappy that Uncle Vernon was no longer living with them. Though never particularly close with his father, at least as far as Violet had seen, Uncle Vernon had always allowed Dudley to get away with most anything, especially when it came to terrorizing the Potters. Now that things were “different in the house,” as Aunt Petunia liked to say, his regular bullying and harassment of Harry and Violet was no longer permitted — at least within his mother’s line of sight. With his favourite punching bags now off limits and nowhere to redirect his taste for unkindness, Dudley had taken to punching things around the house; walls, doors, pillows, the sofa, the microwave, the television — anything that he could reasonably slam his fist into without hurting himself was now dented. Three days ago Aunt Petunia had gone out and bought him a  _ real  _ punching bag, and the sound of him doing his best to pound the stuffing out of it at all hours of the day had become a sort of background noise.

In addition to stopping him from breaking the rest of the house, the punching bag also provided Dudley with something he had been sorely lacking in his life: exercise.

Accompanying the low marks and accusations of bullying laid out in his school report, there were also a few well-chosen comments from the school nurse that not even Aunt Petunia could ignore or explain away. No matter how much she wailed that Dudley was big-boned, and that his poundage was really puppy fat, and that he was a growing boy who needed plenty of food, the fact remained that the school outfitters didn’t stock knickerbockers big enough for him anymore. The school nurse had seen what Aunt Petunia’s eyes — so sharp when it came to spotting fingerprints on her gleaming walls, and in observing the comings and goings of the neighbors — simply refused to see: that far from needing extra nourishment, Dudley had reached roughly the size and weight of a young killer whale.

So — after many tantrums, after arguments that shook the twins bedroom floor, and many tears from Aunt Petunia — the new regime had begun. The diet sheet that had been sent by the Smeltings school nurse had been taped to the fridge, which had been emptied of all of Dudley’s favourite things — fizzy drinks and cakes, chocolate bars and burgers — and filled instead with fruit and vegetables and the sorts of things that Uncle Vernon would have called “rabbit food.” To make Dudley feel better about it all, Aunt Petunia had insisted that the whole family followed the diet too. She now passed a grapefruit quarter each to Harry and Violet. They noticed that theirs were a lot smaller than Dudley’s. Aunt Petunia had yet to let go of — and likely never would — the longstanding habit of treating the twins like second-class citizens compared to her precious son. She seemed to feel that the best way to keep up Dudley’s morale was to make sure that he did, at least, get to eat more than Harry and Violet.

But Aunt Petunia didn’t know what was hidden under the loose floorboard upstairs. She had no idea that the twins were not following the diet at all. The moment Harry had got wind of the fact that they were expected to survive the summer on carrot sticks, he had sent Hedwig to his friends with pleas or help, and they had risen to the occasion magnificently. Hedwig had returned from Hermione’s house with a large box stuffed full of sugar-free snacks. (Hermione’s parents were dentists.) Hagrid, the Hogwarts gamekeeper, had obliged with a sack full of his own homemade rock cakes. (Harry hadn’t touched these, but Violet found they were rather good after being liberally dunked in tea.) Mrs. Weasley, however had sent the family owl, Errol, with an enormous fruitcake and assorted meat pies. Poor Errol, who was elderly and feeble, had needed a full five days to recover from the journey. And then on the twin’s birthday (which the Dursleys had completely ignored) they had received no less than  _ six _ birthday cakes, one each from Ron, Hermione, Hagrid, Lupin, and Violet’s best friends Tracey Davis and Cassius Warrington. The twins still had three of them left, and so, looking forward to a real breakfast when they got back upstairs, they ate their grapefruit without complaint.

The doorbell rang. Aunt Petunia leapt to her feet and set off down the hall. Quick as a flash, while his mother was out of the room, Dudley reached across the table and snatched Violet’s grapefruit right off her plate. Violet shot him the dirtiest look she could manage and pushed the now empty plate away from her.

There was talking at the door, and someone laughing, and Aunt Petunia’s high, nervous false laughter in response. Then the door closed, and their aunt’s sharp footsteps carried her back into the kitchen. Her mouth was pinched into a tight line of displeasure.

“You’ve been sent a letter,” she said curtly to Harry, who flinched back in surprise as an envelope was thrust into his face. Violet took one look at it and had to fight back a laugh. Every bit of it was covered in stamps except for a square inch on the front, into which the Dursleys address had been squeezed in minute writing.

“Is that from Ron?” Violet asked, peering over as Harry eagerly tore into the envelope. He read quickly, his face lighting up more and more with every line. 

“It’s from Ron’s  _ mum!” _ he said at last, holding up the bright purple paper so that Violet could see Mrs. Weasley’s signature. “She says we’re invited to the Quidditch World Cup with them on Monday, and we could stay with them for the rest of the holidays!”

Violet and Harry now wore matching grins of excitement on their faces, and looked quickly to Aunt Petunia. “Can we go?” they said in unison.

A slight spasm crossed Aunt Petunia’s bony face, her lips going so impossibly thin they threatened to disappear entirely.

“Let me see that,” she said, snatching the letter back out of Harry’s hand to read for herself. “Who is this woman?”

“You’ve seen her,” said Harry. “She’s my friend Ron’s mother, she was meeting him off the Hog — off the school train at the end of last term.”

He had almost said “Hogwarts Express,” and that was a sure way to get their aunt to shut down. Even now, nobody ever mentioned the name of the twins’ school aloud in the Dursley household.

“Dumpy sort of woman?” said Aunt Petunia, squinting distastefully at the signature on the bottom of the page. “Load of children with red hair?”

Violet frowned. She thought it was a bit rich of Aunt Petunia to call anyone “dumpy,” when her own son, Dudley, had finally achieved what he’d been threatening to do since the age of three, and become wider than he was tall.

“Quidditch,” Aunt Petunia muttered, rereading the letter once more. “That’s that — that  _ sport, _ isn’t it? The one that’s all up in the air?”

Harry and Violet shared a look of a surprise. It was difficult to remember that their aunt had grown up with a witch for a sister — their mother, Lily — and knew far more about the magical world than she would ever let on. Sometimes they wondered exactly how  _ much _ she knew, though neither had ever dared to broach the subject with her even on the best of days.

“Yeah,” said Harry finally, blinking away his surprise. “The one I play.”

Aunt Petunia gave him a sharp sort of look, then dropped her eyes back to the parchment. Her fingers were now white as she held it.

“What does she mean, ‘the normal way’?” she spat.

“Normal for us,” said Harry, and quickly added, “you know, owl post. That’s what’s normal for wizards.”

On the other side of the table, Dudley choked on his third piece of stolen grapefruit.

Aunt Petunia looked at outraged as if Harry had just uttered a disgusting swear word. Shaking with anger she threw the letter back into his hands and rounded the table, thumping Dudley soundly on the back as she sputtered and coughed. 

“Now look what you’ve done!” Aunt Petunia cried, smoothing back Dudley’s thatch-coloured hair from his now bright red forehead. “Don’t worry now, Diddy, they won’t say it again, it’s alright . . .”

Violet kicked her brother beneath the table, the glare on her face making her message plain —  _ What’d he go and do a thing like that for? _

But Harry only shrugged half-heartedly and turned his attention back to Aunt Petunia.

“So can we go, then?” he asked casually. Aunt Petunia’s expression was sour, but Violet thought she knew exactly what sort of battle was raging behind her eyes. Allowing the twins to go would make them happy, something that Aunt Petunia had struggled against for thirteen years. On the other hand, allowing the two of them to disappear to the Weasley’s for the rest of the summer would get them out of the house two weeks earlier than anyone could have hoped. As neither Dudley nor Aunt Petunia enjoyed having Harry and Violet around, the answer seemed natural.

“Fine. You can go to this . . . this World Cup thing. You write and tell these people they’re to pick you up, mind. I haven’t got time to go dropping you off all over the country. And you’re to spend the rest of the summer there, if they’ll have you.”

“Okay!” said Harry brightly. He tapped Violet’s stunned shoulder and the two of them hopped to their feet. Violet followed her brother back upstairs to their bedroom, holding back the excited whoop building in her chest. They were going to the Quidditch World Cup! They were going to the Weasleys!

While Ron was Harry’s best friend, Violet was far closer with his younger sister, Ginny, and his older twin brothers, Fred and George. She was also immensely fond of Mrs. Weasley and couldn’t wait to spend the next two weeks feasting on her delicious home cooking.

“Hedwig’s back!” said Harry excitedly as he flung open their bedroom door. His snowy owl was indeed back, sitting in her cage, staring at Harry with her enormous amber eyes, and clicking her beak in a way that Violet had come to learn meant that she was annoyed about something. Exactly what was annoying her became apparent almost at once.

“OUCH!” said Violet as what appeared to be a small, great, feathery tennis ball collided with the side of her head. Violet massaged the spot furiously, looking up to see what had hit her, and saw a minute owl, small enough to fit into the palm of her hand, whizzing excitedly around the room like a loose firework. Harry stooped quickly at her feet and came back up holding another letter.

“It’s from Ron,” he said brightly, tearing into the envelope at once. “Ha! He’s letting us know they’ve got the tickets, and . . .” Harry squinted hard at the parchment. “He says the owl’s called ‘Pig?’ And Hermione will be coming, too! That’s brilliant!”

Violet smiled tightly. Of course both of Harry’s best friends would be there — Ron was unavoidable, as it was his family, but the Weasleys had always been exceedingly generous when it came to Hermione Granger as well. Part of Violet wished that they could have been just as generous toward at least  _ one _ of her friends, too.

The small owl flitted low over her head again, twittering madly. Violet’s hand shot out and gently wrapped around the little ball of feathers. It let out a loud hoot of surprise, then settled down and began to vibrate in her hands. Violet had never seen a stranger creature and fell immediately in love with it.

There was a growl from somewhere by her ankles, and Violet looked down to find Crookshanks, her enormous orange cat, staring up at her hands with wide, focused eyes. Violet nealt down and carefully held the owl out for Crookshanks to sniff.

“What d’you reckon, Crooks?” she asked seriously. “Definitely an owl?”

When it had come to light the year before that Wormtail had been living in his Animagus form as Ron’s pet rat, Scabbers, everyone had looked at Crookshanks’ hostility toward Scabbers in a new light. He’d seen right through Wormtail’s disguise from the very start. But now he pressed his squashed little nose up against the little owl’s feathers, sniffing curiously, and began to purr. Crookshanks looked up at Violet with his great orange eyes and blinked once. Violet reckoned that meant Pig was alright.

“Cool,” she said, and stood up to carry the little owl over to Hedwig’s cage. She placed it on top, where Hedwig looked coldly up at it as though daring it to try and come any closer. Violet looked around and found Harry back at the desk, scribbling hastily.

“Who’re you writing to now?”

“Ron, to let him know we can come,” Harry said without looking up, “and Sirius, so he knows where to write back to me.”

“Can you send one to Remus as well?” Violet asked lightly. Harry nodded and reached for another piece of parchment.

“I’ll have Hedwig take these two, and send Pig back to Ron.”

“Thanks, Harry. What sort of cake do you want?”

“Can I have some more of the one Tracey sent, actually? It was really good!”

Violet grinned as she crawled under the bed, wrenched up the loose floorboard, and pulled out two large chunks of birthday cake. She passed one to Harry and sat there on the floor eating the other, savoring the happiness that was flooding through her. She had cake, and Dudley had nothing but grapefruit; it was a bright summer’s day, and they would be leaving Privet Drive tomorrow; she would get to be surrounded by Weasleys, and was going to watch the Quidditch World Cup. It was hard, just now, to feel worried about anything — even Lord Voldemort.


	2. Back to the Burrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic

By twelve o’clock the next day, Harry and Violet’s school trunks were packed with their school things and all their most prized possessions — Harry had his Invisibility Cloak inherited from their father and the broomstick he had gotten from Sirius, while Violet had her collection of interesting jewelry and the enchanted map of Hogwarts that had been given to the two of them by Fred and George Weasley last year; technically it belonged to both her  _ and _ Harry, but Violet had won it fair and square in their ensuing scuffle. She had emptied the hiding place under the loose floorboard of all food, and Harry had taken down the chart on the wall counting down the days to September the first, on which he liked to cross off the days remaining until their return to Hogwarts.

The atmosphere inside number four, Privet Drive, was extremely tense. The imminent arrival at their house of an assortment of wizards was making Aunt Petunia uptight and irritable. She had looked downright alarmed when Harry and Violet informed her that the Weasleys would be arriving at five o’clock the very next day.

Aunt Petunia had been straightening things all day. She went around the living room no less than seven times, dusting off the mantelpiece and the picture frames on the wall, adjusting the delicate lace doilies that sat on the back of the sofa and every chair, squinting around looking for any stray specks of dust that dared accumulate in her spotless home. To some people, this might have looked like a gesture of welcome, but Violet knew it was because Aunt Petunia was determined to have something completely under her control, even if it was only one room of the house. This explained her uncharacteristic shortness with Dudley as well. Dudley was, plainly, terrified. He had emerged from his last encounter with a fully grown wizard with a curly pig’s tail poking out of the seat of his trousers, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had had to pay for its removal at a private hospital in London. It wasn’t altogether surprising, therefore, that Dudley kept running his hand nervously over his backside, and walking sideways from room to room, so as not to present the same target to the enemy, ruffling his neatly pressed clothes in the process.

Lunch was an almost silent meal. Dudley didn’t even protest at the food (cottage cheese and grated celery). Aunt Petunia wasn’t eating at all. Her arms were folded, her lips pursed, and she seemed to be chewing her tongue, as though biting back the furious diatribe she’d worked up during her morning cleaning fit.

“They’ll be driving, won’t they?” she snapped suddenly across the table.

“Er,” said Harry and Violet, looking at one another.

They hadn’t thought of that. How  _ were _ the Weasleys going to pick them up? They didn’t have a car anymore; the old Ford Anglia they had once owned was currently running wild in the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts. But Mr. Weasley had borrowed a Ministry of Magic car last year; possibly he would do the same today?”

“I think so,” said Harry.

The twins spent most of the afternoon in their bedroom; Violet couldn’t stand watching Aunt Petunia peer out through the net curtains every few seconds, as though there had been a warning about an escaped rhinoceros. Finally, at quarter to five, Harry and Violet went back downstairs and into the living room.

Aunt Petunia was back to compulsively straightening things. This time it was the cushions. Dudley was crammed into an armchair, his porky hands beneath him, clamped firmly over his bottom. Violet sat stiffly in the middle of the sofa, not daring to lean back and disturb the perfectly placed cushions. Harry, unable to stand the tension, had left the room and gone to sit on the stairs in the hall.

But five o’clock came and then went. Aunt Petunia, mouth pinched tighter than ever, yanked back the curtains, peered up and down the street, then pulled them shut again with with a sharp jerk.

“They’re late!” she snapped at Violet.

“I know,” said Violet. “Maybe — er — the traffic’s bad, or something.”

Ten past five . . . then a quarter past five . . . Violet’s anxiety was slowly ramping up with every second that ticked past. Her leg bounced nervously, keeping time with Aunt Petunia’s short, sharp little steps as she paced the living room.

“No consideration at all,” she was muttering. “And if they think for a moment they’ll be invited to dinner if they’re late . . .”

Violet, unwisely, opened her mouth to snap back at Aunt Petunia, but fortunately didn’t get the chance to get any words out. There was a sudden rumble, followed by a muffled whoosh and a loud bang from somewhere inside the wall. Dudley yelled and leapt out of his seat, waddling quickly into the hall. Another whoosh and bang and Violet leapt from her seat as well, breathing hard as she stared at the boarded-up fireplace, which had a fake coal fire plugged in front of it. Where those . . . voices?

She whipped around as Harry skidded into the room, looking frantically for the source of the noise.

“What happened?” he said. “What’s the matter?”

The loud banging and scrapings were now unmistakably joined by voices coming from inside the wall.

“Ouch! Fred, no — go back, go back, there’s been some kind of mistake — tell George not to — OUCH! George, no, there’s no room, go back quickly and tell Ron —”

“Maybe they can hear us, Dad — maybe they’ll be able to let us out —”

There was a loud hammering of fists on the boards behind the electric fire, and Aunt Petunia let out a weak wail.

“What is this?” she cried, rounding on the twins. “What’s going on?”

They — they’ve tried to get here by Floo Powder,” said Violet, fighting a mad desire to laugh. “They can travel by fire — only Uncle Vernon blocked up the fireplace — hang on —”

She approached the fireplace and called through the boards.

“Mr. Weasley? Can you hear me?”

The hammering stopped. Somebody inside the chimney piece said, “Shh!”

“Mr. Weasley, it’s Violet . . . the fireplace has been blocked up, you won’t be able to get through there.”

“Damn!” said Mr. Weasley’s voice. “What on earth did they want to block up the fireplace for?”

“They’ve got an electric fire,” Violet explained.

“Really?” said Mr. Weasley’s voice excitedly. “Eclectic, you say? With a  _ plug? _ Gracious, I must see that . . . Let’s think . . . ouch, Ron!”

Ron’s voice now joined the others’.

“What are we doing here? Has something gone wrong?”

“Oh no, Ron,” came Fred’s voice, very sarcastically. “No, this is exactly where we wanted to end up.”

“Yeah, we’re having the time of our lives here,” said George, whose voice sounded muffled, as though he was squashed against the wall.

“Boys, boys . . .” said Mr. Weasley vaguely. “I’m trying to think what to do . . . Yes . . . only way . . . Stand back, Violet.”

Violet hurried away from from the fireplace to stand by Aunt Petunia. She’d just made it to the sofa when —

BANG.

The electric fire shot across the room as the boarded-up fireplace burst outward, expelling Mr. Weasley, Fred, George, and Ron in a cloud of rubble and loose chippings. Aunt Petunia shrieked and fell backward over the coffee table. Violet caught her before she hit the floor, and gaped, speechless, at the Weasleys, all of whom had bright red hair, including Fred and George, who were identical to the last freckle.

“That’s better,” panted Mr. Weasley, brushing dust from his long green robes and straightening his glasses. “Ah — you must be Harry and Violet’s aunt!”

Tall, thin, and balding, he moved toward Aunt Petunia, his hand outstretched, but Aunt Petunia backed away several paces, pulling out of Violet’s grasp. Words utterly failed Aunt Petunia. Her lovely dress was covered in white dust, which had settled in her hair and made her look as though she had just aged thirty years.

“Er — yes — sorry about that,” said Mr. Weasley, lowering his hand and looking over his shoulder at the blasted fireplace. “It’s all my fault. It just didn’t occur to me that we wouldn’t be able to get out at the other end. I had your fireplace connected to the Floo Network, you see — just for an afternoon, you know, so we could come and get the twins. Muggle fireplaces aren’t supposed to be connected, strictly speaking — but I’ve got a useful contact at the Floo Regulation Panel and he fixed it for me. I can put it right in a jiffy, though, don’t worry. I’ll light a fire to send the the children back, and then I can repair your fireplace before I Disapparate.”

Violet was willing to bet that Aunt Petunia hadn’t understood a single word of this. She was still gaping at Mr. Weasley, pale and thunderstruck.

“Hello, Violet, Harry!” said Mr. Weasley brightly, beaming at them. “Got your trunks ready?”

“They’re upstairs,” said Harry, grinning back.

“We’ll get them,” said Fred at once. Winking at Violet, he and George left the room. They knew where Harry and Violet’s bedroom was, having once rescued them from it in the dead of night.

“Well,” said Mr. Weasley, swinging his arms slightly, while he tried to find words to break the very nasty silence. “Very — erm — very nice place you’ve got here.”

As the usually spotless living room was now covered in dust and bits of brick, this remark didn’t go down well with Aunt Petunia. She started chewing on her tongue again, yet seemed too scared to actually say anything.

Mr. Weasley was looking around. He loved everything to do with Muggles. Violet could see him itching to go and examine the television and the video recorder.

“They run on eckeltricity, do they?” he said knowledgeably. “Ah, yes, I can see the plugs. I collect plugs,” he added to Aunt Petunia. “And batteries. Got a very large collection of batteries. My wife thinks I’m mad, but there you are.”

Aunt Petunia clearly though Mr. Weasley was mad too. She moved a half step backward, holding a hand to her thin chest as though covering her frantically beating heart.

Dudley suddenly reappeared in the room. Violet could hear the clunk of her and Harry’s trunks on the stairs, and knew that the sounds had scared Dudley out of the kitchens. Dudley edged along the wall, gazing at Mr. Weasley with terrified eyes, and attempted to conceal himself behind his mother. Unfortunately, as Aunt Petunia was about as big around as a sapling, she provided him little to no cover.

“Ah, this is your cousin, is it, Harry?” said Mr. Weasley, taking another brave stab at making conversation.

“Yep,” said Harry, “that’s Dudley.”

He and Ron exchanged glances and then quickly looked away from each other; they were clearly choking back laughter. Dudley was still clutching his bottom as though afraid it might fall off. Mr. Weasley, however, seemed genuinely concerned at Dudley’s peculiar behavior. Indeed, from the tone of his voice when he next spoke, Violet was quite sure that Mr. Weasley thought Dudley was quite as mad as the Dursleys thought  _ he _ was, except that Mr. Weasley felt sympathy rather than fear.

“Having a good holiday, Dudley?” he said kindly.

Dudley whimpered. Violet saw his hands tighten still harder over his massive backside.

Fred and George came back into the room, each pulling one of the twins school trunks. An orange streak followed behind their heels, and Violet quickly bent and scooped Crookshanks into her arms.

“Ah, right,” said Mr. Weasley. “Better get cracking then.”

He pushed up the sleeves of his robes and took out his wand. Violet saw the Dursleys draw back against the wall as one.

_ “Incendio!” _ said Mr. Weasley, pointing at the hole in the wall behind him.

Flames rose at once in the fireplace, crackling merrily as though they had been burning for hours. Mr. Weasley took a small drawstring pouch from his pocket, untied it, took a pinch of the powder inside, and threw it into the flame, which turned emerald green and roared higher than ever.

“Of you go then, Fred,” said Mr. Weasley.

“Coming,” said Fred. “Oh no — hang on —”

A bag of sweets had spilled out of Fred’s contents and the contents were now rolling in every direction — big, fat toffees in brightly coloured wrappers.

Fred scrambled around, cramming them back into his pocket — Violet narrowed her eyes at the one he missed, sitting very obviously beneath the curtains — then gave the Dursleys a cheery wave, dragged Violet’s trunk forward with him, and walked right into the fire, saying “the Burrow!” Aunt Petunia gave a little shuddering gasp. There was a whooshing sound, and Fred vanished.

“Right then, George,” said Mr. Weasley, “you and the other trunk.”

Harry helped George carry his trunk forward into the flames and turn it onto its end so that he could hold onto it better. Then, with a second whoosh, George had cried “the Burrow!” and vanished too.

“Ron, you next,” said Mr. Weasley.

“See you,” said Ron brightly to the Dursleys. He grinned broadly at Harry, then stepped into the fire, shouted “the Burrow!” and disappeared.

Now only Harry, Violet, and Mr. Weasley remained.

“Well . . . ‘bye then,” the twins said to the Dursleys.

They didn’t say anything at all. Violet looked to Harry, nodding for him to go first,  and he moved toward the fire, but just as the reached the edge of the hearth, Mr. Weasley put out a hand and held him back. He was looking quite firmly at Aunt Petunia.

“Violet and Harry said goodbye to you,” he said. “Didn’t you hear them?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry muttered to Mr. Weasley. “Honestly, I don’t care.”

Mr. Weasley did not remove his hand from Harry’s shoulder.

“You aren’t going to see your niece and nephew until next summer,” he said evenly to Aunt Petunia. “Surely you’re going to say goodbye?”

Aunt Petunia’s face was a pale, blotchy mask of fear and indignation. The idea of being taught consideration by a man who had just blasted away half her living room seemed to be causing her intense suffering. But Mr. Weasley’s wand was still in his hand, and Aunt Petunia’s nervous eyes darted to it once before she said, very resentfully, “Goodbye, then.”

“See you,” said Harry, putting one foot into the green flames and shouting, very clearly, “the Burrow!” Just like the Weasley boys before him, his disappeared with a whoosh. Violet, now alone, turned to say goodbye to her aunt as well. Her breath caught, however, when she saw Dudley stoop quickly and snatch up the brightly colored toffee that Fred had left behind.

“Dudley!” Violet said sharply. Dudley let out a squeak of alarm and clapped his hands back over his bottom, dropping the sweet in the process. Violet rushed to grab it and held it tightly in her fist. She smiled toothily at Dudley. “Good luck with your diet!”

Striding past and bewildered looking Mr. Weasley, Violet called back a cheery, “Bye, Aunt Petunia!” over her shoulder before stepping into the fire and shouting “the Burrow!” All at once Violet began to spin very fast, and the Dursleys living room was whipped out of sight in a rush of emerald-green flames.

Violet spun faster and faster, holding poor Crookshanks tight to her chest, blurred fireplaces flashing past her until she started to feel sick and closed her eyes. Then, when at last she felt herself slowing down, she threw out her hands and came to a halt in time to prevent herself from falling face forward out of the Weasley’s kitchen fire.

“Did he eat it?” said Fred excitedly, holding out a hand to catch Violet as she stumbled out into the kitchen. Crookshanks leapt from her arms at once and dashed out of sight into the Weasley household.

“No, I stopped him,” Violet said sternly. She held out her hand and passed the toffee back to Fred. “What  _ is _ it?”

“Aw, shame . . . They’re Ton-Tongue Toffees,” he explained. “George and I invented them, and we’ve been looking for someone to test them on all summer . . .”

The tiny kitchen exploded with laughter; Violet looked around and saw that Ron, George, and Harry were sitting at the scrubbed wooden table with two red-haired people Violet had never seen before, though she knew immediately who they must be: Bill and Charlie Weasley, the two eldest Weasley brothers.

“How’re you doing, Violet?” said the nearer of the two, grinning at her and holding out a large hand, which Violet shook, feeling calluses and blisters under her fingers. This had to be Charlie, who worked with dragons in Romania. Charlie was built like Fred and George, shorter and stockier than Percy and Ron, who were both long and lanky. He had a broad, good-natured face, which was weather-beaten and so freckly that he looked almost tanned; his arms were muscular, and one of them had a large, shiny burn on it. Violet, inexplicably, found herself blushing.

Bill got to his feet, smiling, and also shook Violet’s hand. Bill came as something of a surprise. Violet knew that he worked for the wizard bank, Gringotts, and that Bill had been Head Boy at Hogwarts; Violet had always imagined Bill to be an older version of Percy; fussy about rule-breaking and fond of bossing everyone around. However, Bill was — there was no other word for it —  _ cool. _ He was tall, with long hair that he had tied back in a ponytail. He was wearing an earring with what looked like a fang dangling from it. Bill’s clothes would not have looked out of place at a rock concert, except that Violet recognized his boots to be made, not of leather, but of dragon hide. Violet shook Bill’s hand as well and hated herself for blushing even harder.

Before she could say anything to embarrass herself, there was a faint popping noise, and Mr. Weasley appeared out of thin air at George’s shoulder. He was looking very flustered, and still had specks of brick and drywall down the front of his robes.

“Well,” he said, looking around at them all, “I suppose that could have gone smoother. Sorry about that, you two — if I’d known about the fireplace —”

“We should’ve said,” Violet said quickly, pleased to have an excuse to look at anything besides the two oldest Weasley boys. “Harry and I weren’t sure how you planned to pick us up, we should’ve thought . . .”

Mr. Weasley shook his head good-naturedly.

“No harm done, Violet. I’ve put your aunt’s living room back into place, and even managed to get a look at the eclectic fireplace!” he said brightly.  _ “Marvelous _ things, plugs, aren’t they? They just go right into the sprocket, don’t they, and —”

“There they are!” said a voice behind them.

Mrs. Weasley had just quite entered the kitchen. She was a short, plump woman with a very kind face, and Violet barely had time to smile at the sight of her before being bundled into a tight, welcoming hug.

“Oh, we’re so glad to see you, dears,” Mrs. Weasley was saying, releasing Violet to hug Harry as well. Violet staggered back from the embrace, now flushing harder than ever though for very different reasons, and nearly bumped into the two girls that appeared in the kitchen doorway behind Mrs. Weasley. One, with very bushy brown hair and rather large front teeth, was Harry and Ron’s friend, Hermione Granger. The other, who was small and red-haired, was Ron’s younger sister, Ginny. Both of them smiled at Violet, who smiled back, feeling slightly dazzled when Ginny’s face went scarlet as well — though that was very likely from Harry’s smile rather than hers. Ginny had been very taken with Harry ever since his first visit to the Burrow.

“What’s that?” said Mrs. Weasley’s voice, suddenly sharp. Violet looked around and found her pointing at the brightly wrapped toffee, which Fred must have set down on the kitchen table by mistake, as both he and George were now staring at it with wide eyes.

“It’s nothing, Mum,” said George quickly. “Just a leftover sweet — we’re not spoiling our dinner, promise —”

“I don’t recognize that label,” Mrs. Weasley, swiping the toffee before George could grab it. “I swear, if this has got anything to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes —”

“Why don’t you show Harry and Violet where they’re sleeping, Ron?” said Hermione from the doorway.

“They know where they’re sleeping,” said Ron, “they stayed here last year —”

“We can all go,” said Hermione pointedly.

“Oh,” said Ron, cottoning on. “Right.”

“Yeah, we’ll come too,” said Fred.

“Now wait just a minute —”

“Er, Molly,” said Mr. Weasley abruptly, “I really must tell you all about the  _ fantastic _ things those Muggles had set up around their house — most all of it powered by eckeltricity, too!”

He shot a pointed look at Fred and George, who scrambled to their feet at once while their father launched into a loud and detailed description of Aunt Petunia’s living room. Harry, Violet, Hermione, and all the Weasley children save for Bill and Charlie vacated the kitchen quickly as they could and set off along the narrow hallway and up the rickety staircase that zigzagged through the house to the upper stories.

“What are Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes?” Violet asked as they climbed.

“So glad you should ask!” cried Fred from behind her.

“Just a little something we’ve been cooking up in our spare time,” said George, all the way at the back of the line.

“Joke stuff, y’know —”

“Fake wands —”

“Trick sweets —”

“Loads of stuff, all of it brilliant —”

“Only it was all a bit dangerous,” said Ron from the front, “and Mum found out.”

Fred and George both heaved loud, dramatic sighs.

“And Mum found out . . .” George repeated sorrowfully.

“We’ve been planning to sell our wares at Hogwarts this year,” explained Fred, looking wistful. “Had the order forms all printed up and everything, ready to go, until Mum came snooping —”

“Cleaning, she calls it —”

“— and put it all to the torch! Says we’re not to make anymore —”

“So long as we’re under her roof —”

“Which means we’ve got to wait till we’re at school to start everything up again, which is a  _ huge _ chunk of prep time wasted —”

“Don’t let her hear you saying that,” Ginny warned, grinning at them over her shoulder. “She’s still furious with you, anyway.” She looked at Violet and said in a whisper too loud to actually be private, “They didn’t get as many O.W.Ls as she expected.”

“Pah!” exclaimed George.

“O.W.Ls,” said Fred dismissively. “Who needs them?”

_ “You _ do,” Ginny said, “if you’re going to work at the Ministry of Magic like Dad —”

“Which we’re not,” said Fred and George together, at once.

“So what  _ will _ you do?” Violet asked, peering back at them. Both Weasley twins smiled broadly at her.

“We’re going to open a joke shop,” said Fred.

Just then a door on the second landing opened and a face poked out wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a very annoyed expression.

“Hi, Percy,” said Harry.

“Oh hello, Harry — Violet,” said Percy. “I was wondering who was making all the noise. I’m trying to work in here, you know — I’ve got a report to finish for the office — and it’s rather difficult to concentrate when people keep thundering up and down the stairs.”

“We’re not  _ thundering,” _ said Ron irritably. “We’re walking. Sorry if we’ve disturbed the top-secret workings of the Ministry of Magic.”

“What are you working on?” said Harry.

“A report for the Department of International Magical Cooperation,” said Percy smugly. “We’re trying to standardize cauldron thickness. Some of these foreign imports are just a shade too thin — leakages have been increasing at a rate of almost three percent a year —”

“That’s a lot,” Violet said, stunned. Percy nodded seriously at her.

“It is indeed, Violet. And unless some sort of international law is imposed we might well find the market flooded with flimsy, shallow-bottomed products that seriously endanger —”

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” said Ron, and he started off again. Percy went slightly pink and slammed his bedroom door shut. Violet, who had actually been rather interested in what he’d had to say, glared sourly at Ron’s backside as she continued to follow him up.

The room at the top of the house where Ron slept looked much as it had the last time that Harry and Violet had come to stay: the same posters of Ron’s favourite Quidditch team, the Chudley Cannons, were whirling and waving on the walls and the sloping ceiling, and the fish tank on the windowsill, which has previously held frog spawn, now contained one extremely large frog. Ron’s old rat, Scabbers, was here no more, but instead there was the tiny grey owl that had delivered Ron’s letter to Harry in Privet Drive. It was hopping up and down in a small cage and twittering madly.

“Shut  _ up, _ Pig,” said Ron, edging his way between two of the four beds that had been squeezed into the room. “Fred and George are in here with us, because Bill and Charlie are in their room,” he said.

“Percy gets to keep his room to himself because he’s got to  _ work,” _ said George distastefully, sitting heavily on one of the beds. He patted the space next to him, looking for Violet to sit down as well, and she did. Fred flopped down on the other bed and began pulling fistfulls of toffees out of his pockets and stuffing them into his pillowcase.

“Er — why are you calling that owl Pig?” Harry asked Ron.

“Because he’s being stupid,” said Ginny. “Its proper name is Pigwidgeon.”

“Yeah, that’s not a stupid name at all,” said Ron sarcastically. “Ginny named him,” he explained to Harry. “She reckons it’s sweet. And I tried to change it, but it was too late, he won’t answer to anything else. So now he’s Pig. I’ve got to keep him up here because he annoys Errol and Hermes. He annoys me too, come to that.”

Pigwidgeon zoomed happily around his cage, hooting shrilly. Violet knew Ron too well to take him seriously. He had moaned continually about his old rat, Scabbers, but had been most upset when Crookshanks appeared to have eaten him.

“Percy’s enjoying work, then?” said Violet, leaning back and watching the Chudley Cannons zooming in and out of the posters on the ceiling.

“Enjoying it?” said Ron darkly. “I don’t reckon he’d have come if Dad didn’t make him. He’s obsessed. Just don’t get him onto the subject of his boss.  _ According to Mr. Crouch . . . as I was saying to Mr. Crouch . . . Mr. Crouch is of the opinion . . . Mr. Crouch was telling me . . . _ They’ll be announcing their engagement any day now.”

“Have you two had a good summer?” said Hermione. “Did you get our food parcels and everything?”

“Yeah, thanks a lot,” said Harry. “They saved our lives, those cakes.”

“And have you heard from Sirius?” said Ron eagerly. “Mum’s been reading the papers, keeping up with the trial. Dad says the whole Ministry is in an uproar over it.”

“Loads of people have come forward saying that thought he was innocent all along,” said Fred, “but nobody wanted to listen to them while he was in prison.”

“That’s another thing not to mention around Percy,” said George in a low voice.

“Why not?” Violet asked.

“‘Cause of his boss — Crouch is the one who sent Black to Azkaban without a trial, and Perce reckons he’s infallible. Won’t hear a word against him. He and Dad had a big row about it last week —”

“Didn’t speak to each other for days after,” finished Fred grimly.

Violet digested this information with the feeling of a stone settling her in belly. She decided that she didn’t care what Percy had to say about cauldron thickness after all. Perhaps he ought to be checking the thickness of his own head instead.

Something of her feelings must have shown on her face, because Ginny cleared her throat and said, “Dad’s probably got Mum to cool off by now. Should we go and help with dinner?”

“Yeah, alright,” sid Ron. The seven of them left Ron’s room and went back downstairs. Ron made sure to stomp his feet extra loudly as they passed Percy’s bedroom door and Fred and George broke off and headed out the front door, going the long way round the house rather than face their mother. The rest of them entered the kitchen to find Mrs. Weasley alone in the kitchen, looking extremely bad-tempered.

“We’re eating out in the garden,” she said when they all came in. “There’s just not enough room for twelve people in here. Could you take the plates outside, girls? Bill and Charlie are setting up the tables.”

Violet and Hermione followed Ginny’s lead in gathering up the plates and bowls that had been set out on the table, and carried them carefully out the back door into the Weasley’s yard. 

They had only gone a few paces when Crookshanks came pelting out of the garden, bottle-brush tail held high in the air, chasing what looked like a muddy potato on legs. Violet recognized it instantly as a gnome. Barely ten inches high, its horny little feet pattered very fast as it sprinted across the yard and dived headlong into one of the Wellington boots that lay scattered around the door. Violet could hear the gnome giggling madly as Crookshanks inserted a paw into the boot, trying to reach it. Meanwhile, a very loud crashing was coming from the other side of the house. The source of the commotion was revealed as they entered the garden, and saw that Bill and Charlie both had their wands out, and were making two battered old tables fly high above the lawn, smashing into each other, each attempting to knock the other’s out of the air. Ginny burst into laughter as soon as she saw them. Fred and George were cheering, in favour of the chaos over rooting for any particular brother.

Bill’s table caught Charlie’s with a huge bang and knocked one of its legs off. There was a clatter from overhead, and they all looked up to see Percy’s head poking out of a window on the second floor.

“Will you keep it down?!” he bellowed.

“Sorry, Perce,” said Bill, grinning. “How’re the cauldron bottoms coming on?”

“Very badly,” said Percy peevishly, and he slammed the window shut. Bill and Charlie directed the tables safely onto the grass, end to end, and then, with a flick of his wand, Bill reattached the table leg and conjured tablecloths from nowhere, just in time for Harry and Ron to come hurrying out with fistfuls of silverware.

By seven o’clock, the two tables were groaning under dishes and dishes of Mrs. Weasleys excellent cooking, and the nine Weasleys, Violet, Harry, and Hermione were settling themselves down to eat beneath a clear, deep-blue sky. To someone who had been living on meals of increasingly stale cake all summer, this was paradise, and at first Violet listened rather than talked as she helped herself to a chicken and ham pie, boiled potatoes, and salad.

At the far end of the table, Percy was telling his father all about his report on cauldron bottoms. Violet pricked up her ears at the mention of Percy’s boss.

“I’ve told Mr. Crouch that I’ll have it ready by Tuesday,” Percy was saying pompously. “That’s a bit sooner than he expected it, but I like to keep on top of things. I think he’ll be grateful I’ve done it on good time, I mean, it’s extremely busy in our department just now, what with all the arrangements for the World Cup. We’re just not getting the support we need from the Department of Magical Games and Sports. Ludo Bagman —”

“I like Ludo,” said Mr. Weasley mildly. “He was the one who got us such good tickets for the Cup. I did him a bit of a favour: His brother, Otto, got into a spot of trouble — a lawnmower with unnatural powers — I smoothed the whole thing over.”

“Oh Bagman’s  _ likable _ enough, of course,” said Percy dismissively, “but how he ever got to be Head of Department . . . when I compare him to Mr. Crouch! I can’t see Mr. Crouch losing a member of our department and not trying to find out what’s happened to them. You realize Bertha Jorkins has been missing for over a month now? Went on holiday to Albania and never came back?”

“Yes, I was asking Ludo about that,” said Mr. Weasley, frowning. “He says Bertha’s gotten lost plenty of times before now — though I must say, if it was something in my department, I’d be worried . . .”

“Oh Bertha’s  _ hopeless, _ alright,” said Percy. “I hear she’s been shunted from department to department for years, much more trouble than she’s worth . . . but all the same, Bagman  ought to be trying to find her. Mr. Crouch has been taking a personal interest, she worked in our department at one time, you know, and I think Mr. Crouch was quite fond of her — but Bagman just keeps laughing and saying she probably misread the map and ended up in Australia instead of Albania. However” — Percy heaved an impressive sigh and took a deep swig of elderflower wine — “we’ve got quite enough on our plates at the Department of International Magical Cooperation without trying to find members of other departments too. As you know, we’ve got another big event to organize after the World Cup.”

Percy cleared his throat significantly and looked down toward the end of the table where Harry, Ron, and Hermione were sitting.  _ “You _ know the one I’m talking about, Father.” He raised his voice slightly. “The top-secret one.”

Ron rolled his eyes and muttered something to Harry and Hermione. Violet, seated between Fred and George as had become usual, was too distracted to hear. Right across the table, Mrs. Weasley was arguing with Bill about his earring, which seemed to be a recent acquisition.

“. . . with a horrible great fang on it. Really, Bill, what do they say at the bank?”

“Mum, no one at the bank gives a damn how I dress as long as I bring home plenty of treasure,” said Bill patiently.

“And your hair’s getting silly, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley, fingering her wand lovingly. “I wish you’d let me give it a trim . . .”

“I like it,” said Ginny, who was sitting beside Bill. “You’re so old-fashioned, Mum. Anyways, it’s nowhere near as long as Professor Dumbledore’s . . .”

Charlie sat on Mrs. Weasley’s other side and was leaning across the table to talk spiritedly with Fred and George about the World Cup.

“It’s got to be Ireland,” said Charlie thickly, through a mouthful of potato. “They flattened Peru in the semifinals.”

“Bulgaria has got Viktor Krum, though,” said Fred.

“Krum’s one decent player, Ireland’s got seven,” said Charlie shortly. “I wish Enland had got through. That was embarrassing, that was.”

“What happened?” said Harry eagerly, leaning forward in his seat.

“Went down to Transylvania, three hundred and ninety to ten,” said Charlie gloomily. “Shocking performance. And Wales lost to Uganda, and Scotland was slaughtered by Luxembourg.”

Violet couldn’t help but roll her eyes as the discussion deepened. Harry was obsessed with Quidditch; he had been on the Gryffindor House team ever since his first year, and owned one of the best racing brooms in the world, a Firebolt. She couldn’t deny that her brother had a fair knack for flying and was a brilliant Seeker, but the sport had a habit of consuming his attention. Violet looked longingly across the table at where Ginny and Bill sat and wished she’d had sense to rethink her seating arrangement.

Mr. Weasley conjured up candles to light the darkening garden before they had their homemade strawberry ice cream, and by the time they had finished, moths were fluttering low over the table, and the warm air was perfumed with the smells of grass and honeysuckle. Violet was feeling extremely well fed and at peace with the world as she watched several gnomes sprinting through the rosebushes, laughing madly as closely pursued by Crookshanks. He was only playing — Violet was sure if he actually meant to hunt to gnomes, the little creatures would be shrieking in terror instead of cackling.

“Look at the time,” Mrs. Weasley said suddenly, checking her wristwatch. “You really should be in bed, the whole lot of you — you’ll be up at the crack of dawn to get to the Cup. Harry, Violet, if you leave your school list out, I’ll get your things for you tomorrow in Diagon Alley. I’m getting everyone else’s. There might not be time after the World Cup, the match went on for five days last time.”

“Wow — hope it does this time!” said Harry enthusiastically.

“Well, I certainly don’t,” said Percy sanctimoniously. “I  _ shudder _ to think what the state of my in-try would be if I was away from work for five days.”

“Yeah, someone might slip dragon dung in it again, eh, Perce?” said Fred.

“That was a sample of fertilizer from Norway!” said Percy, going very red in the face. “It was nothing  _ personal!” _

“It was,” George whispered to Violet as they got up from the table. “We sent it.”

Violet, Ginny, and Charlie stayed behind to help clean up the table even as Mrs. Weasley protested. It didn’t feel right to leave all the work to her, after she’d cooked such a lovely meal for them all. The three of them carried dirty plates into the house and tipped them into the sink, and Violet was just about to follow Ginny up to bed when Mrs. Weasley pulled her aside.

“Here, dear, come with me a moment,” said Mrs. Weasley gently, and Violet nervously sank into a chair at the kitchen table; she wasn’t afraid of Mrs. Weasley in the least, but being asked to speak to an adult alone had always made her feel rather queasy. It came as complete surprise when Mrs. Weasley reached out and touched her hair.

“I suppose the Muggles did this?” she asked, and Violet flushed with embarrassment as she nodded.

“Aunt Petunia said it was getting too long,” Violet mumbled. Mrs. Weasley tutted softly.

“And I suppose she chopped it herself, did she?”

Again, Violet nodded. As unhappy as she was with her own haircut, she had hoped it wasn’t really as bad as she feared and that other people wouldn’t be able to notice. Those hopes were currently being dashed against the rocks as Mrs. Weasley moved to stand behind her, fingers carding deftly through the many knots and tangles in Violet’s hair.

“Really, now . . .” Mrs. Weasley grumbled. “You could do with a bit of Sleakeasy’s, dear . . . I’ll have to pick some up for you tomorrow.”

Violet didn’t know what Sleakeasy’s was, but she hoped it wasn’t very expensive. The thought of Mrs. Weasley paying for her school supplies already had Violet’s stomach roiling with guilt — the Weasleys made up in kindness for what they lacked in coin, and they were a  _ very _ kind family.

She sat still and closed her eyes as Mrs. Weasley worked the worst of the tangles from her hair, tutting occasionally but never pulling hard enough to hurt, as Aunt Petunia often did. Violet felt firm tugging on first one side of her head, and then the other, and reached up eagerly to feel the result when Mrs. Weasley was done.

“There,” said Mrs. Weasley proudly, coming around to look at Violet from the front. “How’s that feel, dear? Too tight?”

“It feels fine,” Violet said quickly, gently feeling the two short French braids that now ran down the back of her head. “I’ve never done it with two before . . . Thanks, Mrs. Weasley . . .”

Mrs. Weasley only smiled wider and swept Violet into a tight, warm hug. When she pulled away, she lightly cupped Violet’s face in her hands for a moment.

“It suits you, Violet,” she said sincerely. Violet’s face must have flushed hot enough to burn, because Mrs. Weasley let her hands fall and hurried her off to bed.


	3. Bagman and Crouch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Violet felt as though she had barely lain down to sleep in Ginny’s room when she was being shaken awake by Mrs. Weasley.

“Time to go, Violet, dear,” she whispered, moving away to wake up Hermione.

Violet sat up in bed and stretched, her mouth opening in a wide yawn. It was still dark outside. Hermione muttered indistinctly as Mrs. Weasley roused her. Across the room from Violet’s mattress she saw a small, disheveled shape emerging from a tangle of blankets.

“‘S’ time already?” said Ginny groggily.

They dressed in silence, too sleepy to talk, then, yawning and stretching, the three of them headed downstairs into the kitchen. Mr. Weasley and all the boys were already up and dressed as well, sitting around the table and chewing groggily on bits of toast and bacon. Violet fell heavily into the empty chair beside Harry and snagged a sausage from his plate.

“Why do we have to be up so early?” Ginny said, rubbing her eyes.

“We’ve got a bit of a walk,” said Mr. Weasley.

“Walk?” said Harry. “What, are we walking to the World Cup?”

“No, no, that’s miles away,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling. “We only need to walk a short way. It’s just that it’s very difficult for a large number of wizards to congregate without attracting Muggle attention. We have to be very careful about how we travel at the best of times, and on a huge occasion like the Quidditch World Cup —”

“George!” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, and they all jumped.

“What?” said George, in an innocent tone that decieved nobody.

“What is that in your pocket?”

“Nothing!”

“Don’t you lie to me!”

Mrs. Weasley pointed her wand at George’s pocket and said,  _ “Accio!” _

Several small, brightly colored objects zoomed out of George’s pocket; he made a grab for them but missed, and they sped right into Mrs. Weasley’s outstretched hand.

“We told you to destroy them!” said Mrs. Weasley furiously, holding up what were unmistakable more Ton-Tongue Toffees. “We told you to get rid of the lot! Empty your pockets, go on, both of you!”

It was an unpleasant scene; the twins had evidently been trying to smuggle as many toffees out of the house as possible, and it was only by using her Summoning Charm that Mrs. Weasley managed to find them all.

_ “Accio! Accio! Accio!” _ she shouted, and toffees zoomed from all sorts of unlikely places, including the lining of George’s jacket and the turn-ups of Fred’s jeans.

“We spent six months developing those!” Fred shouted at his mother as she threw the toffees away.

“Oh a fine way to spend six months!” she shrieked. “Now wonder you didn’t get more O.W.Ls!”

All in all, the atmosphere was not very friendly as they took their departure. Mrs. Weasley was still glowering as she kissed Mr. Weasley on the cheek — Violet had to do a double take when he stood from the table; rather than robes, he appeared to be wearing a golf sweater and a pair of very old, over-large blue jeans held up by a leather belt — though not nearly as much as the twins, who had each hoisted their rucksacks onto their backs and walked out without a word to her.

“Well, have a lovely time,” said Mrs. Weasley, “and  _ behave yourselves,” _ she called after the twins’ retreating backs, but they did not look or answer. “I’ll send Bill, Charlie, and Percy along around midday,” Mrs. Weasley said to Mr. Weasley as he, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny set off across the dark yard. Violet hurried ahead and inserted herself between Fred and George as they stomped across the yard, looping each arm companionably around one of theirs. They didn’t slow their stride, but nor did they shrug her off.

It was chilly and the moon was still out — a waning crescent; Violet had been paying special attention to the cycles of the moon all summer, thinking of her godfather all the while. Only a dull, greenish tinge along the horizon to their right showed that daybreak was drawing closer. Violet, still clinging determinedly to Fred and George, heard footsteps speeding up behind her followed by Harry’s voice.

“So how  _ does _ everyone get there without all the Muggles noticing?” he asked.

“It’s been a massive organizational problem,” sighed Mr. Weasley behind her. “The trouble is, about a hundred thousand wizards turn up at the World Cup, and of course, we just haven’t got a magical site big enough to accomodate them all. There are places Muggles can’t penetrate, but imagine trying to pack a hundred thousand wizards into Diagon Alley or platform nine and three-quarters. So we had to find a nice deserted moor, and set up as many anti-Muggle precautions as possible. The whole Ministry’s been working on it for months. First, of course, we have to stagger the arrivals. People with cheaper tickets have to arrive two weeks beforehand. A limited number use Muggle transport, but we can’t have too many clogging up their busses and trains — remember, wizards are coming from all over the world. Some Apparate, of course, but we have to set up safe points for them to appear, well away from the Muggles. I believe there’s a handy wood they’re using for the Apparition point. For those who don’t want to Apparate, or can’t, we use Portkeys. They’re objects that are used to transport wizards from one spot to another at a prearranged time. You can do large groups at a time if you need to. There have been two hundred Portkeys placed at strategic points around Britain, and the nearest one to us is up at the top of Stoatshead Hill, so that’s where we’re headed.”

Far ahead in the distance, Violet could see a large black mass rising beyond the village of Ottery St. Catchpole.

“What sort of objects are Portkeys?” asked Harry curiously.

“Well, they can be anything,” said Mr. Weasley. “Unobtrusive things, obviously, so Muggles don’t go picking them up and playing with them . . . stuff they’ll just think is litter . . .”

Violet debated telling Mr. Weasley about the sorts of Muggles that went around specifically picking up litter, but decided it wasn’t worth causing a logistical panic so early in the morning. She kept her comments to herself.

They trudged down the dark, dank lane toward the village, the silence broken only by their footsteps. The sky lightened very slowly as they made their way through the village, its inky blackness diluting to deepest blue. Violet’s feet were freezing and she was shivering, despite the warmth of the Weasleys on either side of her.

They didn’t have breath to spare for talking as they began to climb Stoatshead Hill, stumbling occasionally in hidden rabbit holes, slipping on thick black tufts of grass. Each breath Violet took was sharp in her chest and her legs were starting to seize up when, at last, her feet found level ground.

“Whew,” panted Mr. Weasley, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his sweater. “Well, we’ve made good time — we’ve got ten minutes . . .”

Hermione came over the crest of the hill last, clutching a stitch in her side.

“Now we just need to find the Portkey,” said Mr. Weasley, replacing his glasses and squinting around at the ground. “It won’t be big . . . Come on . . .”

They spread out, searching. They had only been at it for a couple of minutes, however, when a shout rent the still air.

“Over here, Arthur! Over here, son, we’ve got it!”

Two tall figures were silhouetted against the starry sky on the other side of the hilltop.

“Amos!” said Mr. Weasley, smiling as he strode over to the man who had shouted. The rest of them followed.

Mr. Weasley was shaking hands with a ruddy-faced wizard with a scrubby brown bear, who was holding a moldy-looking old boot in his other hand.

“This is Amos Diggory, everyone,” said Mr. Weasley. “He works for the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. And I think you know his son, Cedric?”

Cedric Diggory was an extremely handsome boy of around seventeen. He was Captain and Seeker of the Hufflepuff House Quidditch team at Hogwarts, which Violet knew not from Harry, who had played against him, but from her best friend Tracey Davis; Tracey fancied Cedric, and it wasn’t hard to see why.

“Hi,” said Cedric, looking around at them all.

Everybody said hi back except Fred and George, who merely nodded. Not only were they still steamed about the fight with their mother, but they had never quite forgiven Cedric for beating their team, Gryffindor, in the first Quidditch match of the previous year.

“Long walk, Arthur?” Cedric’s father asked.

“Not too bad,” said Mr. Weasley. “We live just on the other side of the village there. You?”

“Had to get up at two, didn’t we, Ced? I tell you, I’ll be glad when he’s got his Apparition test. Still . . . not complaining . . . Quidditch World Cup, wouldn’t miss it for a sack full of Galleons — and the tickets cost about that. Mind you, looks like I got off easy . . .” Amos Diggory peered good naturedly around at the three Weasley boys, Harry and Violet, Hermione, and Ginny. “All these yours, Arthur?”

“Oh no, only the redheads,” said Mr. Weasley, pointing out his children. “This is Hermione, friend of Ron’s — the other twins, Harry and Violet, more friends —”

“Merlin’s beard,” said Amos Diggory, his eyes widening. “Harry and Violet? Harry and Violet  _ Potter?” _

“Er — yeah,” said Harry.

Of the two of them, Harry was far more used to people looking curiously at him when they met them. It was Harry they looked most closely at, their eyes moving at once to the lightning scar on his forehead before flicking briefly to Violet, almost an afterthought, just as Mr. Diggory’s did now. It was always uncomfortable.

“Ced’s talked about you, of course,” said Amos Diggory, speaking directly to Harry. “Told us all about playing against you last year . . . I said to him, I said — Ced, that’ll be something to tell your grandchildren, that will . . .  _ You beat Harry Potter!” _

Harry’s mouth fell open slightly, the way it did when he didn’t know how to respond to something. Fred and George were both scowling again. Cedric looked slightly embarrassed.

“Harry fell off his broom, Dad,” he muttered. “I told you . . . it was an accident . . .”

“Yes, but  _ you _ didn’t fall off, did you?” roared Amos genially, slapping his son on the back. “Almost modest, our Ced, always the gentleman . . . but the best man won, I’m sure Harry’d say the same, wouldn’t you, eh? One falls off his broom, one stays on, you don’t need to be a genius to tell which one’s the better flyer!”

“Must be nearly time,” said Mr. Weasley quickly, pulling out his watch again. “Do you know whether we’re waiting for any more, Amos?”

“No, the Lovegoods have been there for a week already and the Fawcetts couldn’t get tickets,” said Mr. Diggory. “There aren’t many more of us in this area, are there?”

“Not that I know of,” said Mr. Weasley. “Yes, it’s a minute off . . . We’d better get ready . . .”

He looked around at Harry, Violet, and Hermione.

“You just need to touch the Portkey, that’s all, a finger will do —”

With difficulty, owing to their bulky backpacks, the ten of them crowded around the old boot held out by Amos Diggory.

They all stood there, in a tight circle, as a chill breeze swept over the hilltop. Nobody spoke. It suddenly occured to Violet how this would look if a Muggle were to walk up here now . . . ten people, two of them grown men, clutching this manky old boot in the semidarkness, waiting . . .

“Three . . .” muttered Mr. Weasley, one eye still on his watch,” two . . . one . . .”

It happened immediately: Violet felt as though a hook just behind her naval had been jerked irresistibly forward. Her feet left the ground; she could feel George and Ginny on either side of her, their shoulders banging into hers; they were all speeding forward in a howl of wind and swirling color; her forefinger was stuck to the book as though it was pulling her magnetically onward and then —

Her feet slammed into the ground; Ginny staggered into her and they both fell over; the Portkey hit the ground near her head with a heavy thud.

Violet looked up. Mr. Weasley, Mr. Diggory, and Cedric were still standing, though looking very windswept; everybody else was on the ground.

“Seven past five from Stoatshead Hill,” said a voice.

Violet and Ginny disentangled and helped one another to their feet. They had arrived on what appeared to be a deserted stretch of misty moor. In front of them was a pair of tired and grumpy-looking wizards, one of whom was holding a large gold watch, the other a thick roll of parchment and a quill. Both were dressed as Muggles, though very inexpertly: The man with the watch wore a tweed suit with thigh-length galoshes; his colleague, a kilt and a poncho.

“Morning, Basil,” said Mr. Weasley, picking up the boot and handing it to the kilted wizards, who threw it into a large box of used Portkeys beside him; Violet could see an old newspaper, an empty drinks can, and a punctured football.

“Hello there, Arthur,” said Basil wearily. “Not on duty, eh? It’s all right for some . . . We’ve been here all night . . . You’d better get out of the way, we’ve got a big party coming in from the Black Forest at five-fifteen. Hang on, I’ll find your campsite . . . Weasley . . . Weasley . . .” He consulted his parchment list. “About a quarter of a mile’s walk over there, first field you come to. Site manager’s called Mr. Roberts. Diggory . . . second field . . . ask for Mr. Payne.”

“Thanks, Basil,” said Mr. Weasley, and he beckoned everyone to follow him.

They set off across the deserted moor, unable to make out much through the mist. After about twenty minutes, a small stone cottage next to a gate swam into view. Beyond it, Violet could just make out the ghostly shapes of hundred and hundreds of tents, rising up the gentle slope of a large field toward a dark wood on the horizon. They said goodbye to the Diggorys and approached the cottage door.

A man was standing in the doorway, looking out at the tents. Violet knew at a glance that this was the only real Muggle for several acres. When he heard their footsteps, he turned his head to look at them.

“Morning!” said Mr. Weasley brightly.

“Morning,” said the Muggle.

“Would you be Mr. Roberts?”

“Aye, I would,” said Mr. Roberts. “And who’re you?”

“Weasley — two tents, booked a couple of days ago?”

“Aye,” said Mr. Roberts, consulting a list tacked to the door. “You’ve got a space up by the wood there. Just the one night?”

“That’s it,” said Mr. Weasley.

“You’ll be paying now, then?” said Mr. Roberts.

“Ah — right — certainly —” said Mr. Weasley. He retreated a short distance from the cottage and beckoned Harry toward him. “Help me, Harry,” he muttered, pulling a roll of Muggle money from his pocket and starting to peel the notes apart. “This one’s a — a — a ten? Ah yes, I see the little number on it now . . . So this is a five?”

“A twenty,” Harry corrected him in an undertone. Violet smiled uncomfortably at Mr. Roberts, who was plainly trying to catch every word.

“Ah yes, so it is . . . I don’t know, these little bits of paper . . .”

“You foreign?” said Mr. Roberts as Mr. Weasley returned with the correct notes.

“Foreign?” repeated Mr. Weasley, puzzled.

“You’re not the first one who’s had trouble with money,” said Mr. Roberts, scrutinizing Mr. Weasley closely. “I had two try and pay me with great gold coins ten minutes ago.”

“Did you really?” said Mr. Weasley nervously.

Mr. Roberts rummaged around in a tin for some change.

“Never been this crowded,” he said suddenly, looking out over the misty field again. “Hundreds of pre-bookings. People usually just turn up . . .”

“Is that right?” said Mr. Weasley, his hand held out for his change, but Mr. Roberts didn’t give it to him.

“Aye,” he said thoughtfully. “People from all over. Loads of foreigners. And not just foreigners. Weirdos, you know? There’s a bloke walking ‘round in a kilt and a poncho.”

“Shouldn’t he?” said Mr. Weasley anxiously.

“It’s like some sort of . . . I dunno . . . like some sort of rally,” said Mr. Roberts. “They all seem to know each other. Like a big party.”

At that moment, a wizard in plus-fours appeared out of thin air next to Mr. Robert’s front door.

_ “Obliviate!” _ he said sharply, pointing his wand at Mr. Roberts.

Instantly, Mr. Robert’s eyes slid out of focus, his brows unknitted, and a look of dreamy unconcern fell over his face. Violet stared in disbelief.

“A map of the campsite for you,” said Mr. Roberts placidly to Mr. Weasley. “And your change.”

“Thanks very much,” said Mr. Weasley.

The wizard in plus-fours accompanied them toward the gate to the campsite. He looked exhausted: his chin was blue with stubble and there were deep purple shadows under his eyes. Once out of earshot of Mr. Roberts, he muttered to Mr. Weasley, “Been having a lot of trouble with him. Needs a Memory Charm ten times a day to keep him happy. And Ludo Bagman’s not helping. Trotting around talking about Bludgers and Quaffles at the top of his voice, not a worry about anti-Muggle security. Blimey, I’ll be glad when this is over. See you later, Arthur.”

He Disapparated.

“I thought Mr. Bagman was Head of Magical Games and Sports,” said Ginny, looking surprised. “He should know better than to talk about Bludgers near Muggles, shouldn’t he?”

“He should,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling and leading them through the gates into the campsite, “but Ludo’s always been a bit . . . well . . .  _ lax _ about security. You couldn’t wish for a more enthusiastic head of the sports department though. He played Quidditch for England himself, you know. And he was the best Beater the Wimbourne Wasps ever had.”

They trudged up the misty field between long rows of tents. Most looked almost ordinary; their owners had clearly tried to make them as Muggle-like as possible, but had slipped up by adding chimneys, or bellpulls, or weather vanes. However, here and there was a tent to obviously magical that Violet could hardly be surprised that Mr. Roberts was getting suspicious. Halfway up the field stood an extravagant confection of striped silk like a miniature palace, with several live peacocks tethered at the entrance. A little farther on they passed a tent that had three floors and several turrets; and a short way beyond that was a tent that had a front garden attached, complete with a birdbath, sundial, and fountain.

“Always the same,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling. “We can’t resist showing off when we get together. Ah, here we are, look, this is us.”

They had reached the very edge of the wood at the top of the field, and here was an empty space, with a small sign hammered into the ground that read WEEZLY.

“Couldn’t have a better spot!” said Mr. Weasley happily. “The field is just on the other side of the wood there, we’re as close as we could be.” He hoisted his backpack from his shoulders. “Right,” he said excitedly, “no magic allowed, strictly speaking, not when we’re out in these numbers of Muggle land. We’ll be pulling these tents up by hand! Shouldn’t be too difficult . . . Muggles do it all the time . . . Here, you two, where do you reckon we should start?”

Harry and Violet looked at one another in mild panic. Neither of them had ever been camping in their lives; the Dursleys had never taken them on any kind of holiday, preferring to leave them with Mrs. Figg, an old neighbor. However, with Hermione’s help they worked out where most of the poles and pegs should go, and though Mr. Weasley was more of a hindrance than a help, because he got thoroughly overexcited when it came to using the mallet, they finally managed to erect a pair of shabby two-man tents.

All of them stood back to admire their handiwork. Nobody looking at these tents would guess they belonged to wizards, Violet thought, but the trouble was that once Bill, Charlie, and Percy arrived, they would be a party of eleven. Hermione seemed to have spotted this problem as well; she gave Violet a quizzical look as Mr. Weasley dropped to his hands and knees and entered the first tent.

“We’ll be a bit cramped,” he called, “but I think we’ll all squeeze in. Come and have a look.

Harry went first. Violet watched with wide eyes as he neatly disappeared under the tent flap and, though he should have been jostled alongside Mr. Weasley the tent didn’t move or shift at all. Violet followed cautiously. She bent down, ducked under the tent flap, and felt her jaw drop. She had crawled into what looked look an old-fashioned three-room flat, complete with bathroom and kitchen. Oddly enough, it was furnished in exactly the same sort of style as Mrs. Figg’s house: there were crocheted covers in the mismatched chairs and a strong smell of cats.

“Well, it’s not for a long,” said Mr. Weasley, mopping his bald patch with a handkerchief and peering in at the four bunk beds that stood in the bedroom. “I borrowed this from Perkins at the office. Doesn’t camp much anymore, poor fellow, he’s got lumbago.”

He picked up the dusty kettle and peered inside it. “We’ll need water . . .”

“There’s a tap marked on this map the Muggle gave us,” said Ron, who had followed Violet inside the tent and seemed completely unimpressed by its extraordinary inner proportions. “It’s on the other side of the field.”

“Well, why don’t you, Harry, and Hermione got and get us some water then” — Mr. Weasley handed over the kettle and a couple of saucepans — “and the rest of us will get some food for a fire?”

“But we’ve got an oven,” said Ron. “Why can’t we just —”

“Ron, anti-Muggle security!” said Mr. Weasley, his face shining with anticipation. “When real Muggles camp, they cook on fires outdoors. I’ve seen them at it!”

After dropping their things off in the girls’ tent, which was slightly smaller than the boys’, though without the smell of cats, Violet and Ginny met up with Fred and George outside and set off in search of firewood.

Now, with the sun newly risen and the mist lifting, they could see the city of tents that stretched in every direction. They made their way slowly through the rows, staring eagerly around. It was fascinating to see how many wizards and witches had come from different countries for the World Cup.

Their fellow campers were starting to wake up. First to stir were the families with small children; Violet had never seen witches and wizards this young before. A tiny boy no older than two was crouched outside a large pyramid-shaped tent, holding a wand and poking happily at a slug in the grass, which was swelling slowly to the size of a salami. As they drew level with him, his mother came hurrying out of the tent.

_ “How _ many times, Kevin? You  _ don’t — touch — Daddy’s — wand _ — yecchh!”

She had trodden on the giant slug, which burst. Her scolding carried after them on the still air, mingling with the little boy’s yells — “You bust slug! You bust slug!”

As short way farther on, they saw two little witches, barely older than Kevin, who were riding toy broomsticks that rose only high enough for the girls’ toes to skim the dewy grass. A Ministry wizard had already spotted them; as he hurried past Violet and Ginny, he muttered distractedly, “In broad daylight! Parents having a lie-in, I suppose —”

Here and there adult wizards and witches were emerging from their tents and starting to cook breakfast. Some, with furtive looks around them conjured fires with their wands; others were striking matches with dubious looks on their faces, as though sure this couldn’t work. Three African wizards sat in serious conversation, all of them wearing long white robes and roasting what looked like a rabbit on a bright purple fire, while a group of middle-aged American witches sat gossiping happily beneath the spangled banner stretched between their tents that read: THE SALEM WITCHES’ INSTITUTE. Violet caught snatches of conversation in strange languages from the insides of tents as they passed, and though she couldn’t understand a word, the tone of every single voice was excited.

“This is brilliant,” she muttered in wonder, turning back to stare at a patch of tents that were all covered with a thick growth of shamrocks, so that it looked as though small, oddly shaped hillocks had sprouted out of the earth. “I’ve never seen so many of us in one place . . .”

“Makes Diagon Alley look deserted, doesn’t it?” said Fred, grinning at her over his shoulder.

“Now you see why the Ministry’s having such a hard time of it,” said George, walking backwards to talk to Violet. “Pity we can’t all get together like this more often.”

“Is Quidditch really the only time wizards gather?” Violet asked. George laughed and shook his head. 

“‘Course not — every so often there’ll be an international summit or something more serious where wizards from all over show up and argue about laws and regulations. The Cup is just the biggest.”

“And the loudest,” Fred added.

Violet was completely overwhelmed by all the sights, sounds, and smells. Everywhere she looked she saw children and families playing and settling down to breakfast; she saw a group of teenagers she’d never seen before, clearly not students at Hogwarts, and realized they must have come from some  _ other _ wizarding school abroad. Her mind was reeling. She barely noticed when the four of them arrived at a large stack of complimentary firewood and Ginny dumped a stack of logs into her arms.

Mr. Weasley was shaking out the blankets when they returned with the firewood; Harry, Ron, and Hermione had not yet returned with the water.

“Ah, excellent!” said Mr. Weasley at the sight of them. We’ll have breakfast going in no time. Violet, if you would — I have these matches —”

It was great fun trying to teach Mr. Weasley how to strike a match. First he was far too timid about it, barely scraping the head of the match on the side of the box to no effect. After watching Violet demonstrate how to do it properly, he became too bold and broke five matchsticks in a row in his excitement. They’s just gotten a fire going when Harry and his friends came back.

“You’ve been ages,” said George.

“Met a few people,” said Ron, setting the water down. “You got that fire started yet, Dad?”

“He’s been having fun with the matches,” said Fred.

It was at least another hour before the fire was hot enough to cook anything. Their tent seemed to pitched right alongside a kind of thoroughfare to the field, and Ministry members kept hurrying up and down it, greeting Mr. Weasley cordially as they passed. Mr. Weasley kept up a running commentary, mainly for Violet, Harry, and Hermione’s benefit; his own children knew too much about the Ministry to be greatly interested.

“That was Cuthbert Mockridge, Head of the Goblin Liaison Office . . . Here come Gilbert Wimple; he’s with the Committee of Experimental Charms; he’s had those horns for a while . . . Hello, Arnie . . . Arnold Peasegood, he’s an Obliviator — member of the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, you know . . . and that’s Bode and Croaker . . . they’re Unspeakables . . .”

“They’re what?” asked Violet in alarm.

“From the Department of Mysteries, top secret, no idea what they get up to . . .”

At last, the fire was ready, and they had just starting cooking eggs and sausages when Bill, Charlie, and Percy came strolling out of the woods toward them.

“Just Apparated, Dad,” said Percy loudly. “Ah, excellent, lunch!”

They were halfway through their plates of eggs and sausages when Mr. Weasley jumped to his feet, waving and grinning at a man who was striding toward them. “Aha!” he said. “The man of the moment! Ludo!”

Ludo Bagman was easily the most noticeable person Violet had seen so far, even including Basil in his kilt and poncho. He was wearing long Quidditch robes in thick horizontal stripes of bright yellow and black. An enormous picture of a wasp was splashed across his chest. He had the look of a powerfully built man gone slightly to seed; the robes were stretched tightly across a large belly he surely had not had in the days when he had played Quidditch for England. His nose was squashed (probably broken by a stray Bludger, Violet thought), but his round blue eyes, short blond hair, and rosy complexion made him look like a very overgrown schoolboy.

“Ahoy there!” Bagman called happily. He was walking as though he had springs attached to the balls of his feet and was plainly in a state of wild excitement.

“Arthur, old man,” he puffed as he reached the campfire, “what a day, eh? What a day! Could we have asked for more perfect weather? A cloudless night coming . . . and hardly a hiccough in the arrangements . . . Not much for me to do!”

Behind him, a group of haggard-looking Ministry wizards rushed past, pointing at the distant evidence of some sort of magical fire that was sending violet sparks twenty feet into the air.

Percy hurried forward with his hand outstretched. Apparently his disapproval of the way Ludo Bagman ran his department did not prevent him from wanting to make a good impression.

“Ah — yes,” said Mr. Weasley, grinning, “this is my son Percy. He’s just started at the Ministry — and this is Fred — no, George, sorry —  _ that’s _ Fred — Bill, Charlie, Ron — my daughter, Ginny, and Ron’s friends, Hermione Granger, and Harry and Violet Potter.”

Bagman did the smallest of double takes when he heard the name Potter, and his eyes performed the familiar flick upward to the scar on Harry’s forehead.

“Everyone,” Mr. Weasley continued, “this is Ludo Bagman, you know who he is, it’s thanks to him we’ve got such good tickets —”

Bagman beamed and waved his hand as if to say it had been nothing.

“Fancy a flutter on the match, Arthur?” he said eagerly, jungling what seemed to be a large amount of gold in the pockets of his yellow-and-black robes. “I’ve already got Roddy Pontner betting me Bulgaria will score first — I offered him nice odds, considering Ireland’s front three are the strongest I’ve seen in years — and little Agatha Timms has put up half shares in her eel farm on a week-long match.”

“Oh . . . go on then,” said Mr. Weasley. “Let’s see . . . a Galleon on Ireland to win?”

“A Galleon?” Ludo Bagman looked slightly disappointed, but recovered himself quickly. “Very well, very well . . . any other takers?”

“They’re a bit young to be gambling,” said Mr. Weasley. “Molly wouldn’t like —”

“We’ll bet thirty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, three Knuts,” said Fred as he and George quickly pooled all their money, “that Ireland wins — but Viktor Krum gets the Snitch. Oh and we’ll throw in a fake wand.”

“You don’t want to go showing Mr. Bagman rubbish like that —” Percy hissed, but Bagman didn’t seem to think the wand was rubbish at all; on the contrary, his boyish face shone with excitement as he took it from Fred, and when the wand gave a loud squawk and turned into a rubber chicken, Bagman roared with laughter.

“Excellent! I haven’t seen one that convincing it years! I’d pay five Galleons for that!”

Percy froze in an attitude of stunned disapproval.

“Boys,” said Mr. Weasley under his breath, “I don’t want you betting . . . That’s all your saving . . . Your mother —”

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Arthur!” boomed Ludo Bagman, rattling his pocket excitedly. “They’re old enough to know what they want! You reckon Ireland will win but Krum’ll get the Snitch? Not a chance, boys, not a chance . . . I’ll give you excellent odds on that one . . . We’ll add five Galleons for the funny wand, then, shall we . . .”

Mr. Weasley looked on helplessly as Ludo Bagman whipped out a notebook and quill and began jotting down the twins’ names.

“Cheers,” said George, taking the slip of parchment Bagman handed him and tucking it away carefully. Bagman turned most cheerfully back to Mr. Weasley.

“Couldn’t do me a brew, I suppose? I’m keeping an eye out for Barty Crouch. My Bulgarian opposite number’s making difficulties, and I can’t understand a word he’s saying. Barty’ll be able to sort it out. He speaks about a hundred and fifty languages.”

“Mr. Crouch?” said Percy, suddenly abandoning his look of poker-still disapproval and positively writhing with excitement. “He speaks over two hundred! Mermish and Gobbledegook and Troll . . .”

“Anyone can speak Troll,” said Fred dismissively. “All you have to do is point and grunt.”

Percy threw Fred an extremely nasty look and stoked the fire vigorously to bring the kettle back to a boil.

“Any news of Bertha Jorkins yet, Ludo?” Mr. Weasley asked as Bagman settled himself down on the grass beside them all.

“Not a dicky bird,” said Bagman comfortably. “But she’ll turn up. Poor old Bertha . . . memory like a leaky cauldron and no sense of direction. Lost, you take my word for it. She’ll wander back into the office sometime in October, thinking it’s still July.”

“You don’t think it might be time to send someone to look for her?” Mr. Weasley suggested tentatively as Percy handed Mr. Bagman his tea.

“Barty Crouch keeps saying that,” said Bagman, his round eyes widening innocently, “but we really can’t spare anyone at the moment. Oh — talk of the devil! Barty!”

A wizard had just Apparated at their fireside, and he could not have made more of a contrast with Ludo Bagman, sprawled on the grass in his old Wasp robes. Barty Crouch was a stiff, upright, elderly man, dressed in and impeccably crisp suit and tie. The parting in his short grey hair was almost unnaturally straight, and his narrow toothbrush mustache looked as though he trimmed it using a slide rule. His shoes were highly polished. Violet could see at once why Percy idolized him. Percy was a great believer in rigidly followed rules, and Mr. Crouch had complied with the rule about Muggle dressing so thoroughly that he could have passed for a bank manager; Violet doubted even Uncle Vernon would have spotted him for what he really was.

“Pull up a bit of grass, Barty,” said Ludo brightly, patting the ground beside him.

“No thank you, Ludo,” said Crouch, and there was a bite of impatience in his voice. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. The Bulgarians are insisting we add another twelve seats to the Top Box.”

“Oh is  _ that _ what they’re after?” said Bagman. “I though the chap was asking to borrow a pair of tweezers. Bit of a strong accent.”

“Mr. Crouch!” said Percy breathlessly, sunk in a kind of half-bow that made him look like a hunchback. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Oh,” said Mr. Crouch, looking over at Percy in mild surprise. “Yes — thank you, Weatherby.”

Fred and George choked into their own cups. Percy, very pink around the ears, busied himself with the kettle again.

“Oh, and I’ve been wanting a word with you too, Arthur,” said Mr. Crouch, his sharp eyes falling upon Mr. Weasley. “Ali Bashir’s on the warpath. He wants a word with you about your embargo on flying carpets.”

Mr. Weasley heaved a deep sigh.

“I sent him an owl about that just last week. If I’ve told him once I’ve told him a hundred times: Carpets are defined as Muggle Artifacts by the Registry of Proscribed Charmable Objects, but will he listen?”

“I doubt it,” said Mr. Crouch, accepting a cup from Percy. “He’s desperate to export here.”

“Well, they’ll never replace brooms in Britain, will they?” said Bagman.

“Ali thinks there’s a niche in the market for a family vehicle,” said Mr. Crouch. “I remember my grandfather had an Axminster that could seat twelve — but that was before carpets were banned, of course.”

He spoke as though he wanted to leave nobody in any doubt that all his ancestors had abided strictly by the law.

“So, been keeping busy, Barty?” said Bagman breezily.

“Fairy,” said Mr. Crouch drily. “Organizing Portkeys across five continents is no mean feat, Ludo.”

“I expect you’ll both be glad when this is over,” said Mr. Weasley.

Ludo Bagman looked shocked.

“Glad! Don’t know when I’ve had more fun . . . Still, it’s not as though we haven’t got anything to look forward to, eh, Barty? Eh? Plenty left to organize, eh?”

Mr. Crouch raised his eyebrows at Bagman.

“We agreed not to make the announcement until all the details —”

“Oh details!” said Bagman, waving the word away like a cloud of midges. “They’ve signed, haven’t they? They’ve agreed, haven’t they? I bet you anything these kids’ll know soon enough anyway. I mean, it’s happening at Hogwarts —”

“Ludo, we need to meet the Bulgarians, you know,” said Mr. Crouch sharply, cutting Bagman’s remarks short. “Thank you for the tea, Weatherby.”

He pushed his undrunk tea back at Percy and waited for Ludo to rise; Bagman struggled to his feet, swigging down the last of his tea, the gold in his pockets chinking merrily.

“See you all later!” he said. “You’ll be up in the Top Box with me — I’m commentating!” He waved, Barty Crouch nodded curtly, and both of them Disapparated.

“What’s happening at Hogwarts, Dad?” said Fred at once. “What were they talking about?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” said Mr. Weasley, smiling.

“It’s classified information, until such time as the Ministry decides to release it,” said Percy stiffly. “Mr. Crouch was quite right not to disclose it.”

“Oh shut up, Weatherby,” said George.

A sense of excitement rose like a palpable cloud over the campsite as the afternoon wore on. By dusk, the still summer air itself seemed to be quivering with anticipation, and as darkness spread like a curtain over the thousands of waiting wizards, the last vestiges of pretense disappeared: the Ministry seemed to have bowed to inevitable and stopped fighting the signs of blatant magic now breaking out everywhere.

Salesmen were Apparating every few feet, carrying trays and pushing carts full of extraordinary merchandise. There were luminous roses — green for Ireland, red for Bulgaria — which were squealing the nams of the players, pointing green hats bedecked with shamrocks, Bulgarian scarves adorned with lions that really roared, flags from both countries than played their national anthems as they were waved; there were tiny models of Firebolts that really flew, and collectible figures of famous players, which strolled across the palm of your hand, preening themselves.

“You’re for Ireland, right?” Violet said, rounding on Fred and George; the three of them and Ginny were strolling through the salesmen, looking over all the souvenirs.

“How dare you!” said Fred in mock indignation. “It’s not as if we’ve just bet our life’s savings on them or anything.”

Violet pursed her lips together — she disapproved of what the two of them had done, but had learned the hard way that money was a touchy subject among the Weasleys. It wasn’t her place to criticize. Instead, she stopped in front of a cart piled high with what looked like brass binoculars, except they were covered with all sorts of weird knobs and dials.

“What are these for?” she asked, picking up a pair.

“Omnioculars!” said the saleswizard eagerly. “You can replay action . . . slow everything down . . . and they flash up a play-by-play breakdown if you need it. Bargain — ten Galleons each.”

“Four pairs,” said Violet firmly to the wizard. Fred, George and Ginny sputtered behind her, but Violet turned and said, “I haven’t gotten you anything for Christmas for the last three years — consider this a make-up present.”

The twins looked likely to argue, but Violet pushed two pairs of Omnioculars into their hands with a firm smile; Ginny had gone bright red again.

“Thanks, Vi,” she muttered, clutching them tightly.

“Don’t mention it,” Violet said kindly.

By the time they went back to the tents, Violet’s money bag was considerably lighter; in addition to the Omnioculars she’d also bought herself a green rosette, and a dancing shamrock hat for Ginny, whose face was now the colour of tomato, though she was smiling broadly. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all decked out in green as well, and Mr. Weasley was carrying an Irish flag.

And then a deep, booming gong sounded somewhere beyond the woods, and at once, green and red lanterns blazed to light in the trees, lighting a path to the field.

“It’s time!” said Mr. Weasley, looking as excited as any of them. “Come on, let’s go!”


	4. The Quidditch World Cup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Clutching their purchases, Mr. Weasley in the lead, they all hurried into the wood, following the lantern-lit trail. They could hear the sounds of thousands of people moving around them, shouts and laughter, snatches of singing. The atmosphere of feverish excitement was highly infectious; Violet couldn’t stop grinning. They walked through the wood for twenty minutes, talking and joking loudly, until at last they emerged on the other side and found themselves in the shadow of gigantic stadium. Though Violet could see only a fraction of the immense gold walls surrounding the field, she could tell that ten cathedrals would fit comfortably inside it.

“Seats a hundred thousand,” said Mr. Weasley, spotting the awestruck look on all of their faces. “Ministry task force of five hundred have been working on it all year. Muggle Repelling Charms on every inch of it. Every time Muggles have got anywhere near here all year, they’ve suddenly remembered urgent appointments and had to dash away again . . . bless them,” he added fondly, leading the way toward the nearest entrance, which was already surrounded by a swarm of shouting witches and wizards.

“Prime tickets!” said the Ministry witch at the entrance when she checked their tickets. “Top Box! Straight upstairs, Arthur, and as high as you can go!”

The stairs into the stadium were carpeted in rich purple. They clambered upward with the rest of the crowd, which slowly filtered away through doors into the stands to their left and right. Mr. Weasley’s party kept climbing, and at last they reached the top of the staircase and found themselves in a small box, set at the highest point of the stadium and situated exactly halfway between the golden goal posts. About twenty purple-and-gilt chairs stood in two rows here, and Violet, filing into the front seats with the Weasleys, looked down upon a scene the likes of which she could never have imagined.

A hundred thousand witches and wizards were taking their places in the seats, which rose in levels around the long oval field. Everything was suffused with a mysterious golden light, which seemed to come from the stadium itself. At either end of the field stood three goal hoops, fifty feet high; right opposite them, almost at Violet’s eye level, was a gigantic blackboard. Gold writing kept dashing across it as though an invisible giant’s hand were scrawling upon the blackboard and then wiping it off again; watching it, Violet saw that it was flashing advertisements across the field.

_The Bluebottle: A Broom for All the Family — safe, reliable, and with Built-in Anti-Burglar Buzzer . . . Mrs. Skower’s All-Purpose Magical Mess Remover: No Pain, No Stain! . . . Gladrags Wizardwear — London, Paris, Hogsmeade . . ._

Violet tore her eyes away from the sign and looked over her shoulder to see who else was sharing the box with them. So far it was empty, except for a tiny creature sitting in the second from last seat at the end of the row behind them. The creature, whose legs were so short they stuck out in front of it on the chair, was wearing a tea towel draped like a toga, and it had its face hidden in its hands. Yet those long, batlike ears were oddly familiar . . .

Violet stared, mouth agape, then leaned over and tugged on Harry’s sleeve. Harry, who was busy joking with Ron, looked around curiously and followed the line of where she pointed.

_“Dobby?”_ said Harry incredulously.

The tiny creature looked up and stretched its fingers, revealing enormous brown eyes and a nose the exact size and shape of a large tomato. It wasn’t Dobby — it was, however, unmistakably a house elf, as Harry’s friend Dobby had been. Two years ago Harry had set Dobby free from the family that kept him enslaved: the Malfoys.

“Did sir just call me Dobby?” squeaked the elf curiously from between its fingers. Its voice was higher even than Dobby’s had been, a teeny, quivering squeak of a voice, and Violet suspected — though it was very hard to tell with a house-elf — that this one might just be female. Ron and Hermione spun around in their seats to look. Though Harry had likely told them all about Dobby, they had never actually met him. Even Mr. Weasley looked around in interest.

“Sorry,” Harry told the elf, “I just thought you were someone I knew.”

“But I knows Dobby too, sir!” squeaked the elf. She was shielding her face, as though blinded by light, though the Top Box was not brightly lit. “My name is Winky, sir — and you, sir —” Her dark brown eyes widened to the size of side plates as they rested upon Harry’s scar. “You is surely Harry Potter!”

Of _course_ even a house elf would know Harry by his scar, Violet thought, surprised by her own bitterness. But it would make sense, she supposed; only old and wealthy wizarding families were said to own house elves. Surely they would speak of her and Harry, and the elves would overhear.

Harry must not have thought of that, judging by the stunned look on his face.

“Yeah, I am,” he said.

“But Dobby talks of you all the time, sir!” Winky said, lowering her hands very slightly and looking awestruck.

“How is he?” Harry asked. “How’s freedom suiting him?”

“Ah, sir,” said Winky, shaking her heard, “ah sir, meaning no disrespect, sir, but I is not sure you did Dobby a favor, sir, when you is setting him free.”

“Why?” said Violet, taken aback. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Freedom is going to Dobby’s head, ma’am,” said Winky sadly. “Ideas above his station, ma’am Can’t get another position, ma’am.”

“Why not?” said Harry.

Winky lowered her voice by a half-octave and whispered, _“He is wanting paying for his work, sir.”_

“Paying?” said Harry blankly. “Well — why shouldn’t he be paid?”

Winky looked quite horrified at the idea and closed her fingers slightly so that her face was half-hidden again.

“House-elves is not paid, sir!” she said in a muffled squeak. “No, no, no. I says to Dobby, I says, go find yourself a nice family and settle down, Dobby. He is getting up to all sorts of high jinks, ma’am, what is unbecoming to a house-elf. Your goes racketing around like, Dobby, I said, and next thing I hear you’s up in front of the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures, like some common goblin.”

“Well, it’s about time he had a bit of fun,” said Harry.

“House-elves is not supposed to have fun, Harry Potter,” said Winky firmly, from behind her hands. “House-elves do what they is told. I is not liking heights at all, Harry Potter” — she glanced toward the edge of the box and shuddered — “but my master sends me to the Top Box and I comes, sir.”

“Why’s he sent you up here, if he knows you don’t like heights?” said Violet, frowning.

“Master — master wants me to save him a seat, ma’am. He is very busy,” said Winky, tilting her head toward the empty space beside her. “Winky is wishing she is back in master’s tent, ma’am, but Winky does what she is told. Winky is a good house-elf.”

She gave the edge of the box another frightened look and hid her eyes completely again. Harry and Violet turned back to the others.

“So that’s a house-elf?” Ron muttered. “Weird things, aren’t they?”

“Dobby was weirder,” said Harry.

“They’re not _weird,”_ Violet said fervently. “Don’t be mean.”

The boys at least had the decency to look apologetic before turning away. Violet sat back in her seat with a huff. Ron pulled out his Omnioculars and started testing them, staring down into the crowd on the other side of the stadium.

“Wild!” he said, twiddling the replay knob on the side. “I can make that old bloke down there pick his nose again . . . and again . . . and again . . .”

Hermione, meanwhile, was skimming eagerly through her velvet covered, tasseled program.

“‘A display from the team mascots will precede the match,’” she read aloud.

“Oh, that’s always worth watching,” said Mr. Weasley. “National teams bring creatures from their native land, you know, to put on a bit of a show.”

The box gradually filled around them over the next half hour. Mr. Weasley kept shaking hands with people who were obviously very important wizards. Percy jumped to his feet so often that he looked as though he were trying to sit on a hedgehog. When Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic himself, Percy bowed so low that his glasses fell off and shattered. Highly embarrassed, he repaired them with his wand and thereafter remained in his seat, throwing jealous looks at Harry and Violet, whom Cornelius Fudge had greeted like old friends. They had met before, and Fudge shook each of their hands in a fatherly fashion, asked how they were, and introduced them to the wizards on either side of him.

“The Potter Twins, you know,” he loudly told the Bulgarian minister, who was wearing splendid robes of black velvet trimmed with gold and didn’t seem to understand a word of English. _“Potter Children . . ._ oh come on now, you know who they are . . . the ones who survived You-Know-Who . . . you _do_ know who he is —”

The Bulgarian wizard suddenly spotted Harry’s scar and startling gabbling loudly and excitedly, pointing at it.

“Knew we’d get there in the end,” Fudge said wearily to Violet. “I’m not a great shake at languages; I need Barty Crouch for this sort of thing. Ah, I see his house-elf’s saving him a seat . . . Good job, too, these Bulgarian blighters have been trying to cadge all the best places . . . ah, and here’s Lucius!”

Harry, Violet, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny, who was sitting on Violet’s other side, turned quickly. Edging along the second row to three still-empty seats right behind Mr. Weasley were none other than Dobby the house-elf’s former owners: Lucius Malfoy; his son, Draco; and a woman Violet supposed must be Draco’s mother.

The twins and Draco Malfoy had been enemies ever since their first journey to Hogwarts. A pale boy with a pointed face and white-blond hair, Draco greatly resembled his father. His mother was blonde too; tall and slim, she would have been very beautiful if she hadn’t been wearing a look that suggested there was a nasty smell under her nose.

“Ah, Fudge,” said Mr. Malfoy, holding out his hand as he reached for the Minister of Magic. “How are you? I don’t think you’ve met my wife, Narcissa? Or our son, Draco?”

“How do you do, how do you do?” said Fudge, smiling and bowing to Mrs. Malfoy. “And allow me to introduce to you to Mr. Oblansk — Obalonsk — Mr. — well, he’s the Bulgarian Minister of Magic, and he can’t understand a word I’m saying anyway, so never mind. And let’s see who else — you know Arthur Weasley, I daresay?”

It was a tense moment. Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy looked at each other and Violet vividly recalled the last time they had come face-to-face: It had been in Flourish and Blotts’ bookshop, and they had had a fight. Mr. Malfoy’s cold grey eyes swept over Mr. Weasley, and then up and down the row.

“Good lord, Arthur,” he said softly. “What did you have to sell to get seats in the Top Box? Surely your house wouldn’t have fetched this much?”

Fudge, who wasn’t listening, said, “Lucius has just given a _very_ generous contribution to St. Mungo’s Hospital to Magical Maladies and Injuries, Arthur. He’s here as my guest.”

“How — how nice,” said Mr. Weasley, with a very strained smile.

Mr. Malfoy’s eyes had returned to Hermione, who went slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at him. Violet knew exactly what was making Mr. Malfoy’s lip curl like that. The Malfoys prided themselves on being purebloods; in other words, they considered anyone of Muggle descent, like Hermione, second-class. However, under the gaze of the Minister of Magic, Mr. Malfoy didn’t dare say anything. He nodded sneeringly to Mr. Weasley and continued down the line to his seats. Draco shot Harry, Ron, and Hermione, one contemptuous look, then caught the way Violet was glaring at him and settled himself between his mother and father.

Harry liked to talk about Draco Malfoy as though he were _his_ problem, but Harry wasn’t the one who had to share a common room and almost all classes with him; Violet and Draco were both in Slytherin House and had had plenty of confrontations of their own over the years. Violet was rather pleased to see that Draco still remembered what a bad idea crossing her could be.

“I can’t believe he’s here as a guest of the Minister,” Ginny muttered angrily, once they had all turned back around to face the field. “No wonder the Malfoys can get away with whatever they like . . .”

Violet remembered, quite suddenly, that Ginny had more reason to hate Lucius Malfoy than almost anyone else: it had been him, after all, who had slipped a mysterious diary into her belongings two years ago; the diary had belonged to Tom Riddle, the young man who would eventually become Lord Voldemort, and was somehow imbued with some of his power and personality. In Ginny’s possession, the diary had warped her mind and controlled her and very nearly gotten her killed. All of that was thanks to Lucius Malfoy.

“Bastard,” Violet muttered to Ginny, who giggled into her hand.. Next moment, Ludo Bagman charged into the box.

“Everyone ready?” he said, his round face gleaming like a great, excited Edam. “Minister — ready to go?”

“Ready when you are, Ludo,” said Fudge comfortably.

Ludo whipped out his wand, placed the tip of against his own throat, and said _“Sonorus!”_ and then spoke over the roar of sound that was now filling the packed stadium; his voice echoed over them, booming into every corner of the stands.

“Ladies and gentlemen . . . welcome! Welcome to the final of the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup!”

The spectators screamed and clapped. Thousands of flags waves, adding their discordant national anthems to the racket. The huge blackboard opposite them was wiped clear of its last message (Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans — A Risk With Every Mouthful!) and now showed BULGARIA: 0, IRELAND: 0.

“And now, without further ado, allow me to introduce . . . the Bulgarian National Team Mascots!”

Then right-hand side of the stands, which was a solid block of scarlet, roared its approval.

“I wonder what they’ve brought,” said Mr. Weasley, leaning forward in his seat. “Aaah!” He suddenly whipped off his glasses and polished them hurriedly on his robes. _“Veela!”_

“What are veel—?”

But a hundred Veela were now gliding out onto the field, and Violet’s question was answered for her. Veela were women . . . the most beautiful women Violet had ever seen . . . except that they weren’t — they couldn’t be — human. This puzzled Violet for a moment while she tried to guess what exactly they could be; what could make their skin shine moon-bright like that, or their white-gold hair fan out behind them without wind . . . but then the music started, and Violet stopped worrying about them not being human — in fact, she stopped worrying about anything at all.

The veela had started to dance, and Violet’s mind had gone completely and blissfully blank. All that mattered in the world was that she kept watching the veela, because if they stopped dancing, terrible things would happen . . .

And as the veela danced faster and faster, half-formed thoughts started chasing through Violet’s dazed mind. She wanted to do something very impressive, right now. She was very good at magic. Maybe she could do some big magic, something really bright, and get the veela’s attention from all the way at the Top Box . . .

“Harry, what _are_ you doing?” said Hermione’s voice from a long way off.

The music stopped. Violet blinked. She was on the edge of her seat, one hand out in front of her, her palm tingling slightly — but beside her, Harry was on his feet with one of his legs resting on the wall of the box, as though he meant to step over the edge of it. Next to him, Ron was frozen in an attitude that looked as though he were about to dive from a springboard.

Angry yells were filling the stadium. The crowd didn’t want the veela to go. Violet was with them; she would, of course, be supporting Bulgaria, and she wondered vaguely why she had ever thought otherwise. Ron, meanwhile, was absentmindedly shredding the shamrocks on his hat. Mr. Weasley, smiling slightly, leaned over to Ron and tugged the hat out his hands.

“You’ll be wanting that,” he said, “once Ireland have had their say.”

“Huh?” said Ron.

Hermione made a loud tutting noise. She reached up and pulled Harry back into his seat. “ _Honestly!_ Can you believe the fuss they’re making, Violet? Violet?”

“What?” said Violet. She tore her eyes away from the veela, who were now lined up along one side of the field, and looked down at Hermione and Mr. Weasley. They were both looking at her rather curiously. Violet realized she was still perched eagerly on the edge of her seat and sat back at once, so hard she nearly knocked the wind out of herself. Her face felt very hot, and her stomach felt very queasy.

“And now,” roared Ludo Bagman’s voice, “kindly put your wands in the air . . . for the Irish National Team Mascots!”

Next moment, what seemed to be a great green-and-gold comet came zooming into the stadium. It did one circuit of the stadium, then split into two smaller comets, each hurtling toward the goal posts. A rainbow arced suddenly across the field, connecting the two balls of light. The crowd oooohed and aaaahed, as though at a fireworks display. Now the rainbow faded and the balls of light reunited and merged; they had formed a great shimmering shamrock, which rose up into the sky and began to soar over the stands. Something like golden rain seemed to be falling from it —

“Excellent!” yelled Ron as the shamrock soared over them, and heavy gold coins rained from it, bouncing off their heads and seats. Squinting up at the shamrock, Violet realized that it was actually comprised of thousands of tiny little bearded men with red vests, each carrying a minute lamp of gold or green.

“Leprechauns!” said Mr. Weasley over the tumultuous applause of the crowd, many of them were still fighting and rummaging around under their chairs to retrieve the gold.

“There you go,” Ron yelled happily, stuffing a fistful of gold coins into Harry’s hands. “For the Omnioculars! Now you’ve got to buy me a Christmas present, ha!”

The great shamrock dissolves, the leprechauns drifted down onto the field on the opposite side from the veela, and settled themselves cross-legged to watch the match.

“And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome — the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you — Dimitrov!”

A scarlet-clad figure on a broomstick, moving so fast it was blurred, shot out onto the field from an entrance far below, to wild applause from the Bulgarian supporters.

“Ivanova!”

A second scarlet-robed player zoomed out.

“Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaand — _Krum!”_

“That’s him, that’s him!” yelled Ron, following Krum with his Omnioculars. Violet quickly focused her own.

Viktor Krum was thin, dark, and sallow-skinned, with a large curved nose and thick black eyebrows. He looked like an overground bird of prey and — in Violet’s startled opinion — slightly resembled a younger version of her Head of House, Professor Snape. It was hard to believe Krum was only eighteen.

“And now, please greet — the Irish National Quidditch Team!” yelled Bagman. “Presenting — Connolly! Ryan! Troy! Mullet! Morgan! Quigley! Aaaaaand — _Lynch!”_

Seven green blurs swept onto the field; Violet cheered at the top of her lungs along with the whole row of Weasleys; she had little personal investment in either team, but it was impossible not to be swept up in the fervor.

“And here, all the way from Egypt, our referee, acclaimed Chairwizard of the International Association of Quidditch, Hassan Mostafa!”

A small and skinny wizard, completely bald but with a mustache to rival Uncle Vernon’s, wearing robes of pure gold to match the stadium, strode out onto the field. A silver whistle was protruding from under the mustache, and he was carrying a large crate under one arm, his broomstick under the other. Violet held up her Omnioculars and watched as Mostafa mounted his broomstick and kicked the crate open — four balls burst into the air; the scarlet Quaffle, the two black Bludgers, and (Violet saw it for the briefest moment before it sped out of sight) the miniscule, winged Golden Snitch. With a sharp blast on his whistle, Mostafa shot into the air after the balls.

“Theeeeeeeey’re OFF!” screamed Bagman. “And it’s Mullet! Troy! Moran! Dimitrov! Back to Mullet! Troy! Levski! Moran!”

It was Quidditch as Violet had never seen it played before. She hardly knew where to keep her Omnioculars fixed. The speed of the players was incredible — the Chasers were throwing the Quaffle to one another so fast that Bagman only had time to say their names. Violet was doing her best to follow the Quaffle, but all the flickering around was starting to make her feel dizzy. She lowered her Omnioculars to rub at her eyes and —

“TROY SCORES!” roared Bagman, and the stadium shuddered with a roar of applause and cheers. “Ten zero to Ireland!”

“I missed it!” Violet cried, immediately raising her Omnioculars again; she fiddled with the dials, but as she hadn’t had them pointed a the field all she got was a blur of movement and a close-up of her own shoe. She cursed under her breath and looked quickly back to the field. Troy was doing a lap of honor. On the sidelines, the leprechauns had all risen into the air again and formed the great, glittering shamrock. Across the field, the veela were watching them sulkily.

Annoyed with herself, Violet pressed the Omnioculars firmly into her face.

Violet knew enough about Quidditch from watching Harry play to see that the Irish Chasers were superb. They worked as a seamless team, their movements so well coordinated that they appeared to be reading one another’s minds as they positioned themselves. And within ten minutes, Ireland had scored twice more, bringing their lead thirty-zero and causing a thunderous ride of roars and applause from the green-clad supporters.

The match became still faster, but more brutal. Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, were whacking the Bludgers as fiercely as possible at the Irish Chasers, and were starting to prevent them from using some of their best moves. Twice they were forced to scatter, and then, finally, Ivanova managed to break through their ranks; dodge the Keeper, Ryan; and score Bulgaria’s first goal.

“Fingers in your ears!” bellowed Mr. Weasley as the Veela stared to dance in celebration. Violet slammed her eyes shut and clapped both hands over her ears, not wanting to embarrass herself anymore than she already had. The last thing she wanted was for Draco Malfoy to see the kind of affect the veela had on her — especially when they didn’t seem to bother Hermione at all.

After a few seconds, Violet chanced a glance at the field. The veela had stopped dancing, and Bulgaria was again in possession of the Quaffle.

“Dimitrov! Levski! Dimitrov! Ivanova — oh I say!” roared Bagman.

One hundred thousand wizards as the two Seekers, Krum and Lunch, plummeted through the center of the Chasers, so fast that it looked as though they had just jumped from airplanes without parachutes. Violet followed their descent through her Omnioculars, squinting to see where the Snitch was —

“They’re going to crash!” screamed Hermione down the line.

She was half right — at the very last seconds, Viktor Krum pulled out of the dive and spiraled off. Lynch, however, hit the ground with a dull thud that could be heard throughout the stadium. A huge groan rose from the Irish seats.

“Fool!” moaned Mr. Weasley. “Krum was feinting!”

“It’s time-out!” yelled Bagman’s voice, “as trained mediwizards hurry onto the field to examine Aiden Lynch!”

“He’ll be okay, he only got ploughed!” Charlie said reassuring to Ginny, who had launched out of her seat beside Violet and was now hanging over the side of the box, looking horror-struck. “Which is what Krum was after, of course . . .”

Violet hastily raised her Omnioculars and focused down on the field, where Lynch was being revived by mediwizards with cups of potion. She searched for Krum and found him circling high above the field, his dark eyes darting all over the ground a hundred feet below. He was using the time while Lynch was revived to look out for the Snitch without interference.

Lynch got to his feet at last, to loud cheers from the green-clad supporters, mounted his broom, and kicked back off into the air. His revival seeme to give Ireland new heart. When Mostafa blew his whistle again, the Chasers moved into action with a skill unrivaled by anything Violet had seen so far.

As Mullet shot toward the goal posts yet again, clutching the Quaffle tightly under her arm, the Bulgarian Keeper, Zolgraf, flew out to meet her. Whatever happened was over so quickly Violet didn’t catch it, but a scream of rage from the Irish crowd, and Mostafa’s long, shrill whistle blast, told her it had been a foul.

“And Mostafa takes the Bulgarian Keeper to task for cobbing — excessive use of elbows!” Bagman informed the roaring spectators. “And — yes, it’s a penalty to Ireland!”

The leprechauns, who had risen angrily into the air like a swarm of glittering hornets when Mullet had been fouled, now darted together to form the words “HA HA HA!” The veela on the other side of the field leapt to their feet, tossed their hair angrily, and started to dance again.

Violet wasn’t quick enough to stuff her ears this time. The music started up and the veela started dancing, and the roars of the crowd faded away into nothingness as the beauty of the veela’s movement began to cloud her mind. If only they could keep dancing forever . . . then things would really be alright in the world . . .

But the veela did not keep dancing. The music came to an abrupt, discordant end as they were shouted down by the referee, each of their stunning faces twisted in anger. Violet came back to herself in a rush of mortified self-awareness.

“And unless I’m much mistaken, Mostafa is actually attempting to send off the Bulgarian team mascots!” said Bagman’s voice. “Now _there’s_ something we haven’t seen before . . . Oh this could turn nasty . . .”

To try and cover the blush in her cheeks Violet clutched her Omnioculars back to her face. It was, indeed, turning nasty: The Bulgarian Beaters, Volkov and Vulchanov, landed on either side of Mostafa and began arguing furiously with him, gesticulating toward the leprechauns, who had now gleefully formed the words “HEE HEE HEE.” Mostafa was not impressed by the Bulgarians’ arguments, however; he was jabbing his finger into the air, clearly telling them to get flying again, and when they refused, he gave two short blasts on his whistle.

_“Two_ penalties for Ireland!” shouted Bagman, and the Bulgarian crowd howled with anger. “And Volkov and Vulchanov had better get back on those brooms . . . yes . . . there they go . . . and Troy takes the Quaffle . . .”

Play now reached a level of ferocity beyond anything they had yet seen. The Beaters on both sides were acting without mercy: Volkov and Vulchanov in particular seemed not to care whether their clubs made contact with Bludger or human as they swung them violently through the air. Dimitrov shot straight at Moran, who had the Quaffle, nearly knocking her off her broom.

_“Foul!”_ roared the Irish supporters as one, all standing up in a great wave of green.

“Foul!” echoed Ludo Bagman’s magically magnified voice. “Dimitrov skins Moran — deliberately flying to collide there — and it’s got to be another penalty — yes, there’s the whistle!”

The leprechauns had risen into the air again, and this time they formed a giant hand, which was making a very rude sign indeed at the veela across the field. At this, the veela lost control. Instead of dancing, they launched themselves across the field and began throwing what seemed to be handfuls of fire at the leprechauns. Watching through her Omnioculars, Violet saw that their beauty had shifted into something far more obviously inhuman — their faces elongated into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings were bursting from their shoulders —

“And _that,_ boys,” yelled Mr. Weasley over the tumult of the crowd below, “is why you should never go for looks alone!”

Ministry wizards were flooding onto the field to separate the veela and the leprechauns, but with little success; while Violet’s were fixed on the chaos below, her ears were attuned to the commentary on the pitched battle happening above. Bagman was shouting off names faster than ever.

“Levksi — Dimitrov — Moran — Troy — Mullet — Ivanova — Moran again — Moran — MORAN SCORES!”

But the cheers of the Irish supporters were barely heard over the shrieks of the veela, the blasts now issuing from the Ministry members’ wands, and the furious roars of the Bulgarians. Violet wrenched her gaze skyward as the game recommenced immediately; now Levski had the Quaffle, now Dimitrov —

The Irish Beater Quigley swung heavily at a passing Bludger and hit it as hard as possible toward Krum, who did not duck quickly enough. It hit him full in the face.

There was a deafening groan from the crowd; Krum’s nose looked broken, there was blood everywhere, but Hassan Mostafa didn’t blow his whistle. He had become distracted, and Violet couldn’t blame him; one of the veela had thrown a handful of fire and set his broom tail alight.

“Time-out!” yelled Ron’s voice. “Ah, come on, he can’t play like that, look at him —”

_“Look at Lynch!”_ Harry yelled.

For the Irish Seeker had suddenly gone into a dive, and Violet scrambled to keep her Omnioculars fixed on him.

“He’s seen the Snitch!” Harry shouted beside her. “He’s seen it, look at him go!”

Half the crowd seemed to have realized what was happening; the Irish supporters rose in another great wave of green, screaming their Seeker on  . . . but Krum was on his tail. How he could see where he was going, Violet had no idea; there were flecks of blood flying through the air behind him, but he was drawing level with Lynch now as the pair of them hurtled toward the ground again —

“They’re going to crash!” shrieked Ginny.

“They’re not!” roared Ron.

“Lynch is!” yelled Harry.

And he was right — for the second time, Lynch hit the ground with tremendous force and was immediately stampeded by a horde of angry veela.

“The Snitch, where’s the Snitch?” bellowed Charlie from Ginny’s other side.

“He’s got it — Krum’s got it — it’s all over!” shouted Harry.

Krum, his red robes shining with blood from his nose, was rising gently into the air, his fist held high, a glint of gold in his hand.

The scoreboard was flashing BULGARIA: 160, IRELAND: 170 across the crowd, who didn’t seem to have realized what had happened. Then, slowly, as though a great jumbo jet engine were revving up, the rumbling from the Ireland supporters grew louder and lower and erupted into screams of delight.

“IRELAND WINS!” Bagman shouted, who like the Irish, seemed to be taken aback by the sudden end of the match. “KRUM GETS THE SNITCH — BUT IRELAND WINS — good lord, I don’t think any of us were expecting that!”

“What’d he catch the Snitch for?” Ron bellowed, even as he jumped up and down, applauding with his hands over his head. “He ended it when Ireland were a hundred and sixty points ahead, the idiot!”

“He knew they were never going to catch up!” Harry shouted, his voice carrying through even over all the noise. “The Irish Chasers were too good . . . He wanted to end it on his terms, that’s all . . .”

“Is he going to be alright?” Ginny asked, rushing to look over the edge of the box again as a swarm of mediwizards blasted a path through the battling veela and leprechauns to get to Krum. “He looks a terrible mess . . .”

It was hard to see what was happening below, because leprechauns were zooming delightedly all over the field, but Violet could just made out Krum, surrounded by mediwizards. He looked surlier than ever and refused to let them mop him up. His team members were around him, shaking their heads and looking dejected; a short way away, the Irish players were dancing gleefully in a shower of gold descending from their mascots. Flags were waving all over the stadium, the Irish national anthem blared from all sides; the veela were shrinking back into their beautiful selves now, though looking dispirited and forlorn.

“Vell, ve fought bravely,” said a gloomy voice behind Violet. She looked around; it was the Bulgarian Prime Minister.

“You can speak English!” said Fudge, sounding outraged. “And you’ve been letting me mime everything all day!”

“Vell, it vos very funny,” said the Bulgarian minister, shrugging.

“And as the Irish team performs a lap of honor, flanked by their mascots, the Quidditch World Cup itself is brought into the Top Box!”

Violet’s eyes were suddenly dazzled by a blinding white light as the Top Box was magically illuminated so that everyone in the stands could see the inside. Squinting toward the entrance, she saw two panting wizards carrying a vast golden cup into the box, which they handed to Cornelius Fudge, who was still looking very disgruntled that he’d been using sign language all day for nothing.

“Let’s have a really loud hand for the gallant losers — Bulgaria!” Bagman shouted.

And up the stairs into the box came the seven defeated Bulgarian players. The crowd below was applauding appreciatively; Violet could see thousands and thousands of Omniocular lenses flashing and winking their directing and felt immediately sick to her stomach. The thought of so many eyes on her made her nauseous.

One by one, the Bulgarians filed between the rows of seats in the box, and Bagman called out the name of each as they shook hands with their own minister and then with Fudge. Krum, who was last in line, looked a real mess. Two black eyes were blooming spectacularly on his bloody face. He was still holding the Snitch. Violet noticed that he seemed much less coordinated on the ground. He was slightly duck-footed and distinctly round-shouldered. But when Krums name was announced, the whole stadium gave him a resounding, earsplitting roar.

And then came the Irish team. Aiden Lynch was being supported by Moran and Connolly; the second crash seemed to have dazed him and his eyes looked strangely infocused. But he grinned happily as Troy and Quigley lifted the Cup into the air and the crowd below thundered its approval. Violet’s hands were numb with clapping.

At least, when the Irish team had left the box to perform another lap of honour on their brooms (Aiden Lynch on the back of Connolly’s, clutching hard around his waist and still grinning in a bemused sort of way), Bagman pointed his wand at his throat and muttered, _“Quietus.”_

“They’ll be talking about this one for years,” he said hoarsely, “a really unexpected twist, that . . . shame it couldn’t have lasted longer . . . Ah yes . . . yes, I owe you . . . how much?”

For Fred and George had just scrambled over the backs of their seats and were standing in front of Ludo Bagman with broad grins on their faces, their hands outstretched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays y'all!
> 
> Sorry for the long delay between chapters lately, life has been interfering, but I'm working on it. Thank you for your patience, and for the lovely comments and encouragements you all have sent me! It means more than you'll ever know to hear from so many people who love and care about Violet like I do and have become invested in her journey.


	5. The Dark Mark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

_ “Don’t _ tell your mother you’ve been gambling,” Mr. Weasley implored Fred and George as they all made their way slowly down the purple carpeted stairs.

“Don’t worry, Dad,” said Fred gleefully, “we’ve got big plans for this money. We don’t want it confiscated.”

Mr. Weasley looked for a moment as though he was going to ask what these big plans were, but seemed to decide, upon reflection, that he didn’t want to know.

They were soon caught up in the crowds now flooding out of the stadium and back to their campsites. Raucous singing was borne toward them on the night air as they retraced their steps along the lantern-lit path, and leprechauns kept shooting over their heads, cackling and waving their lanterns. When they finally reached the tents, nobody felt like sleeping at all, and given the level of noise around them, Mr. Weasley agreed that they could all have one last cup of cocoa together before turning in. They were soon arguing enjoyably about the match; Mr. Weasley got drawn into a disagreement about cobbing with Charlie, and it was only when Ginny fell asleep right at the tiny table and spilled hot chocolate all over the floor that Mr. Weasley called a halt to the verbal replays and insisted that everyone go to bed. Violet, Hermione, and Ginny bid their goodnights to the boys and headed into the next tent, where they changed into their pajamas and fell heavily into their beds. From the other side of the campsite they could still hear much singing and odd echoing bangs.

Violet flopped onto her stomach and pressed her face into the pillow, sleepy and full of cocoa; the day had been spectacular. The match had been exciting enough for even her, whose passing interest in Quidditch only extended so far as whether or not her brother was winning. The speed of it all, the roars of the crowd, the lights of the leprechauns, the dancing of the veela . . . oh, but the veela . . .

It would be difficult for anyone to deny the beauty of the dancing, golden-haired women that had enchanted most of the stadium — before they began hucking fireballs from their claws, that is — but Violet was uncomfortably aware that certain people didn’t seem affected by them all. Hermione had barely spared the veela a glance, while Violet and Harry had been utterly hypnotized. Only no one had given Harry any funny looks about it.

Something sour and cold lodged itself in Violet’s chest as she recalled the odd way Mr. Weasley had looked at her when the veela had first appeared. She squeezed her eyes shut and nestled deeper into her pillow. Maybe she was just imagining it. Hopefully, it didn’t mean anything . . .

Violet never knew whether or not she had actually dropped off to sleep — all she knew was that, quite suddenly, Mr. Weasley was shouting.

“Get up! Girls — Violet, Ginny, come on now, get up, this is urgent!”

Violet rolled over so quickly she flipped right out of bed and onto the floor.

“What’s going on?” asked Hermione from across the tent.

Dimly, Violet could tell that something was wrong. The noises in the campsite had changed. The singing had stopped. She could hear screams, and the sound of people running. She clambered to her feet and reached for her clothes, but Mr. Weasley, who had pulled on his jeans under his nightshirt, said,  _ “Hurry, _ girls — get outside, quickly!”

Violet grabbed her wand, jammed her bare feet into her shoes, and hurried out of the tent on Ginny’s heels.

By the light of the few fires that were still burning, she could see people running away into the woods, fleeing something that was moving across the field toward them, something that was emitting odd flashes of light and noises like gunfire. Loud jeering, roars of laughter and drunken yells were drifting toward them; then came a burst of strong green light, which illuminated the scene.

A crowd of wizards, tightly packed and moving together with wands pointing straight upward, was marching slowly across the field. Violet squinted at them . . . They didn’t seem to have faces . . . Then she realized that their heads were hooded and their faces masked. High above them, floating along in midair, four struggling figures were being contorted into grotesque shapes. It was as though the masked wizards on the ground were puppeteers, and the people above them were marionettes operated by invisible strings that rose and fell from the wands into the air. Two of the figures were very small.

More wizards were joining the marching group, laughing and pointing up at the floating bodies. Tents crumpled and fell as the marching crowd swelled. Once or twice Violet saw one of the marchers blast a tent out his way with his wand. Several caught fire. The screaming grew louder.

The floating people were suddenly illuminated as they passed over a burning tent and Violet recognized one of them: Mr. Roberts, the campsite manager. The other three looked as though they might be his wife and children. One of the marchers below flipped Mrs. Roberts upside down with his wand; her nightdress fell down to reveal voluminous drawers and she struggled to cover herself up as the crowd below her screeched and hooted with glee.

“That’s sick,” said Ron, who had emerged from the tent with Harry, watching the smallest Muggle child, who had begun to spin like a top, sixty feel above the ground, his head flopping limply from side to side. “That is really sick . . .”

The flap of the boy’s tent opened once more and Bill, Charlie, and Percy emerged, fully dressed, with their sleeves rolled up and their wands out.

“We’re going to help the Ministry!” Mr. Weasley shouted over all the noise, rolling up his own sleeves. “You lot — get into the woods, and  _ stick together. _ I’ll come and fetch you when we’ve sorted this out!”

Bill, Charlie, and Percy were already sprinting away toward the oncoming marchers; Mr. Weasley tore after them. Ministry wizards were dashing from every direction toward the source of the trouble. The crowd beneath the Roberts family was coming ever closer.

“C’mon,” said Fred, grabbing Ginny’s hand and startling to pull her toward the wood. Violet, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and George followed. They all looked back as they reached the trees. The crowd beneath the Roberts family was larger than ever; they could see the Ministry wizards trying to get through it to the hooded wizards in the center, but they were having great difficult. It looked as though they were scared to perform any spell that might make the Roberts family fall.

The colored lanterns that had lit the path to the stadium had been extinguished. Dark figures were blundering through the trees; children were crying; anxious shouts and panicked voices were reverberating around them in the cold night air. Violet felt herself being pushed hither and thither by people whose faces she could not see. Very nearby, someone let out a shout of pain. Violet stumbled on a pile of fallen leaves and fought to keep her footing. George caught her arm to help her balance and didn’t let go as they continued to run. Violet could see his freckled face was white as a sheet.

“Where’re we going?” Ginny asked, her voice high and breathless with panic as Fred pulled her along.

“Dad said he’d come and find us,” Fred said. “We’ll find someplace safe and wait for him.”

“But what if —”

“But  _ nothing, _ Ginny.” Fred’s voice was sharper that Violet had ever heard it, devoid of any of the easy cheer it was usually full of. He came to a sharp stop, breathing hard. For a moment Violet though he might start shouting — but then he looked at Ginny and forced himself to smile. “Dad said he’d come when it’s over. It’ll all be alright.”

Ginny looked on the verge of tears, but Fred’s smile seemed to have reassured her. She nodded, and followed silently along.

George let go of Violet’s arm.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, “didn’t mean to drag you around like that. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Violet said, unconvincing even to her own ears. She couldn’t stop thinking about the little boy spinning in the air, the woman struggling helplessly above the crowd. There were still screams coming back from the campsite, and people were still fleeing into the woods around them. The air was thick with fear.

Violet looked back, hoping her own brother might be able to reassure her as well — only her brother wasn’t standing behind her like she thought he was. Harry, Ron, and Hermione were nowhere to be seen.

“Harry?” Violet called. He must have fallen a few steps behind. He was only a short ways away, surely. But then why didn’t he answer? “Harry!” Violet called again, more urgently.

“Ron?” called George. Fred and Ginny stopped and turned back as well.

“They were right behind us,” Ginny said anxiously. “They followed us out of camp, didn’t they?”

“I’m going back,” Violet said, and started off down the trail again. There was a scrambling sound behind her, and George caught her by the shoulder.

“Hold on, Dad said to stick together,” he said, “you can’t just run off and —”

Violet shook free of his grasp. “I’m going to find Harry,” she said, and kept walking.

“Violet, wait! Bloody hell . . . stay with Ginny, we’ll catch up.”

“Oi, don’t you go disappearing, too!” Fred said.

“Good luck getting rid of me,” said George over his shoulder, jogging to catch up with Violet’s brisk stride. The two of them fell into step as they struggled back down the path. It was packed with plenty of other people, all heading in the opposite direction and looking nervously over their shoulders. Violet scanned every face that passed her, looking for Ron’s red hair or Hermione’s buck teeth, or her own reflection mirrored in Harry’s face — but everyone was a stranger.

Her heart leapt at the sight of a huddle of teenagers in pajamas, arguing quietly with one another. When they saw Violet and George, a girl with thick curly hair turned and said said quickly,  _ “Oú est Madam Maxime? Nous l’avons perdue  _ —”

“W-what?” said Violet.

“Oh . . .” The girl who had spoken started to turn away.

“Wait,” Violet said, “have you seen a boy who looks like me? Dark hair, only he’s got glasses, and a scar?”

The girl looked at her, uncomprehending, and turned away again. As Violet and George moved on, they distinctly heard her say, “‘Ogwarts.”

“They’re not from our school,” George muttered, peering over his shoulder at the group. “S’pose people have come from all over for the Cup.”

“I’ll bet they weren’t expecting anything like this,” said Violet.

_ “No one _ was expecting anything like this,” George said grimly. “This sort of stuff’s not meant to happen anymore; marches and Muggle hunts — I thought the Ministry put a stop to all that.”

“What do you mean ‘anymore?’ When did it used to happen?”

“Back when You-Know-Who was in power,” said George quietly. “Dad’s talked about it a couple of times, but Mum always put a stop to it. She didn’t want us hearing about any of that. Especially Ginny.”

Mrs. Weasley was very protective of her youngest child, and only daughter; and after what had happened to Ginny at Hogwarts two years earlier, Violet had no trouble believing that Mrs. Weasley would be very careful about keeping her out of harm’s way.

With no sign of Harry on the path they’d already taken, and the loud bangs and jeering laughter that get ever louder as they neared the edge of the forest, Violet and George veered back and headed into the trees. They followed another dark path deeper into the woods, still keeping an eye out for Harry, Ron, and Hermione. They passed a group of goblins who were cackling over a sack of gold that they had undoubtedly won betting on the match, and who seemed quite unperturbed by the trouble at the campsite. Violet elected not to ask if they had seen her brother. Something about the goblin’s sharp black eyes and unnaturally long fingers had always made her uneasy.

With no sign of Harry and no sense of direction to guide her in the dark, Violet was rapidly settling into a state of panic. Her eyes ached from the weight of the tears building in them, just waiting for the right provocation to fall, and the rest of her body was starting to feel jerky and numb.

When they reached a small clearing, Violet stopped and looked around, peering through the dark trees as though she might catch a familiar sight; the glint of Harry’s glasses, or the silhouette of his baggy, hand-me-down clothes. But the few shapes she saw moving through the forest were distant and unfamiliar; too tall, too fat, too large of a group. None of them were Harry.

“Blimey, you must be freezing,” George said suddenly, and Violet looked at him in confusion.

“What?”

“You’re shaking like mad,” he pointed out. “You should’ve said something. Here —” George struggled out of his jumper, revealing a t-shirt underneath. He held it out to Violet. “Put this on. You need it more than I do.”

Violet, now painfully aware of the shivers wracking her body, looked down in mortification at the vest top and shorts she was wearing. She hadn’t been able to grab any clothes besides her shoes when Mr. Weasley woke them up. George pushed the jumper into her frozen hands.

“B-but won’t you get cold too?” Violet asked. He shrugged.

“I mean, we can take turns if you’re really worried about it,” he teased. Violet was grateful that the dark covered her blush. She pulled the sweater on over her head; it was much too large, and though she couldn’t make out the color she could see a large letter ‘G’ knitted into the front. The sleeves fell down to cover her hands, and Violet tried not to think about how warm it already was.

“Thanks,” she muttered to George. He smiled, and it might have just been Violet’s imagination, but she thought he might be blushing a bit as well.

“Don’t mention it. Mum makes us new ones every ye—”

“Shh!” Violet hissed, whipping around. She had just heard a noise; a voice in the distance that sounded very familiar. She listened carefully.

There was another shout, coming from somewhere behind them. Violet looked quickly at George, confirming that he had heard it too, and he nodded silently. Without another word Violet turned and raced in the direction of the voice.

“Violet,  _ wait!” _

“That sounded like Harry,” Violet hissed, staggering blindly through the trees. “I know it’s him, just like you’d know if it was Fred. He’s close, I can feel it —”

Without warning, the silence was rent by a voice unlike any they had heard in the wood; not a scream, or a panicked shout, but what sounded like a spell.

_ “MORSMORDRE!” _

A flash of green erupted through the trees ahead of them and something vast and glittering flew up over the treetops and into the sky.

“What the — ?” gasped George, staggering back as he stared up at the thing that had appeared.

For a split second, Violet thought it was another leprechaun formation. Then she realized that was it a colossal skull, comprised of what looked like smoke and emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue. As they watched, it rose higher and higher, blazing in a haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a new constellation.

Suddenly, the wood all around them erupted with screaming. Violet understood why; the skull had now risen high enough to illuminate the entire wood like some grisly neon sign. It was an image that she had only seen in faded old copies of the  _ Daily Prophet _ in the Hogwarts library, but Violet knew exactly what it was.

The Dark Mark. Voldemort’s sign, left behind by his followers where a killing had taken place.

“Harry!” Violet shouted, rushing forward.

“No!” George cried, catching hold of the back of her jumper, but Violet twisted away and kept going. 

“Harry! Harry, where are —”

“Violet!” called Harry’s voice, just through the trees again. Lit up by the light of the terrible skull Violet could see a clearing ahead. She raced toward it, stumbling, and then —

_ “STUPEFY!” _ roared a chorus of voices, a wave of fiery red jets shot through the trees. Two of them hit Violet in the chest, and down she went.

It was as though a very thick fog had enveloped her head. Thoroughly dazed, Violet was only vaguely aware of someone standing over her and shouting, and then of being dragged limply across the ground. There was more shouting, louder, and from several people. She couldn’t get her eyes to focus.

“. . . couldn’t have been her . . .” said a voice, oddly familiar, from somewhere over Violet’s head. The words sounded as though they were travelling through water to reach her. “. . . Think of who you’re talking about!”

“And the boy?” said a different voice, less familiar, but sharper. Violet squeezed her eyes shut, desperate to stop the pounding in her head, which was very sore.  _ All _ of her was very sore, now that she thought about it.

“. . . their wands,” said yet another voice; the clearest yet, and a woman. “Here, Amos, check them . . .”

Something was muttered overhead, a soft white glow washed over Violet’s face. She groaned, pained by the brightness, and tried to turn her head away.

“For goodness sake, let her up,” said the first, familiar voice again, followed by,  _ “Rennervate!” _

All at once the heaviness of Violet’s head and body disappeared. She was was very sore and very cold, and she was lying on the ground, and when she opened her eyes it was to see Mr. Weasley kneeling over her and looking very concerned.

“Violet?” he said, peering down at her. “Violet, can you hear me?”

“Wha’ happened?” Violet groaned, trying to sit up. Mr. Weasley helped her pull herself into a sitting position. She rubbed at her eyes and looked around.

She was sitting in the middle of a circle of about twenty Ministry wizards. Mr. Crouch was standing behind Mr. Weasley, and Amos Diggory was holding her wand. Violet turned her head to the left and saw Harry, Ron, and Hermione staring down at her as well.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked, looking very relieved to see her sitting up. He likely would have been on the ground at her side as well, if not for the burly Ministry wizard holding on to his shoulder. Violet nodded, then immediately winced. The back of her head felt like it’d been hit with a Bludger.

“Where’s George?” she mumbled, looking around again.

“Present and accounted for,” said George’s voice from behind her, sounding pained, and Violet turned to see him standing in between two grim looking wizards, each with a firm hand on his shoulders. There was a leaf in his hair and dirt on the front of his shirt and face; he looked as though he had been tackled to the ground.

“Violet, I need to ask you some questions, please,” said Mr. Weasley urgently, drawing Violet’s attention back to him. “Did you see anyone in the woods? Did you see the person who conjured the Mark in the sky?”

Violet shook her head and regretted it as her brain wobbled like a bowl of custard.

“We heard voices,” she said, “coming from ahead. I thought I heard Harry so I ran towards it, then somebody shouted and that thing flew up from the trees. But I never saw anybody.”

“You ran toward Harry?” Mr. Weasley asked. “You weren’t together?”

“We got separated,” Violet told him.

Mr. Weasley looked sharply at his older son.

“Where’s your sister?” he demanded.

“With Fred,” George said. “They went on ahead.”

“And you just ran off and left them? George, I told you to  _ stick together _ —”

“Well I wasn’t going to let Violet go off by herself!” George countered.

“It’s my fault,” Violet said quickly. “I wanted to go find Harry. George tried to stop me but I didn’t listen, so he came with. I’m sorry, I know we were supposed to stay together but — I couldn’t find Harry, and I was scared. I’m sorry.”

Mr. Weasley’s expression softened at once.

“It’s alright, Violet, I understand. I don’t know how you all wound up separated in the first place but at least —”

Mr. Weasley was interrupted by a shout from the trees.

“We found another one! There’s someone here! Unconscious! It’s — but — blimey —”

“Bring them here!” shouted Mr. Diggory. “Who is it?”

They heard snapping twigs, the rustling of leaves, and then crunching footsteps as a witch in a woolen dressing gown emerged from behind the trees. She was carrying a tiny, limp figure in her arms. Violet recognized the tea towel at once. It was Winky.

Mr. Crouch did not move or speak as the witch deposited his elf at his feet on the ground, only a few feet from where Violet sat. The other Ministry wizards were all staring at Mr. Crouch. For a few seconds Crouch remained transfixed, his eyes blazing in his white face as he stared down at Winky. Then he appeared to come to life again.

“This — cannot — be,” he said jerkily. “No —”

He moved quickly around the Ministry witch and strode off toward the place where she had found Winky. They could heard him moving around and the rustling of leaves as he pushed the bushes aside, searching.

“Bit embarrassing,” Mr. Diggory said grimly, looking down at Winky’s unconscious form. “Barty Crouch’s house-elf . . . I mean to say . . .”

“Come off it, Amos,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, “you don’t seriously think it was the elf? The Dark Mark’s a wizard’s sign. It requires a wand.”

“Was anyone else with it?” Mr. Diggory asked the witch, who shook her head.

“No one, Amos. Only . . . she had this . . .” The woman held up a wand and showed it to Diggory and Mr. Weasley. “She had it in her hands . . .”

“So that’s class three of the Code of Wand Use Broken, for a start,” said Mr. Diggory, staring unpleasantly down at Winky.  _ “No non-human creature is permitted to carry or use a wand.” _

Just then there was another  _ pop, _ and Ludo Bagman Apparated right next to Mr. Weasley. Looking breathless and disoriented, he spun on the spot, goggling upward at the emerald-green skull.

“The Dark Mark!” he panted, almost trampling Violet as he turned inquiringly to his colleagues. “Who did it? Did you get them? Barty! What’s going on?”

Mr. Crouch had returned empty-handed. His face was still ghostly white, and his hands and his toothbrush mustache were both twitching.

“Where have you been, Barty?” said Bagman. “Why weren’t you at the match? Your elf was saving you a seat too — gulping gargoyles!” Bagman had just noticed Violet on the ground, and Winky lying beside her. “What happened to them?”

“I have been busy, Ludo,” said Mr. Crouch, still talking in the same jerky fashion, barely moving his lips. “And my elf has been stunned.”

“Stunned! By you lot, you mean? But why — ?”

Comprehension dawned suddenly on Bagman’s round, shiny face; he looked up at the skull, down at Winky, and then at Mr. Crouch.

_ “No!” _ he said. “Winky? Conjure the Dark Mark? She wouldn’t know how! She’d need a wand, for a start!”

“And she had one,” said Mr. Diggory, taking the wand and holding it up for all to see. “She was found holding one, Ludo. If it’s alright with you, Mr. Crouch, I think we should hear what she’s got to say for herself. Out of the way, love, if you don’t mind.”

Violet scrambled painfully to her feet with Mr. Weasley’s help and was shuffled over to George’s side. Mr. Diggory moved to stand over Winky. He raised his own wand, pointed it at Winky, and said,  _ “Rennervate!” _

Winky stirred feebly. Her great brown eyes opened and she blinked several times in a bemused sort of way. Watched by the silent wizards, she raised herself shakily into a sitting position. She caught sight of Mr. Diggory’s feet, and slowly, tremulously, raised her eyes to stare up into his face; then, more slowly still, she looked up into the sky. Violet could see the floating skull reflected twice in her enormous, glassy eyes. She gave a gasp, looked wildly around the crowded clearing and burst into terrified sobs.

“Elf!” said Mr. Diggory sternly. “Do you know who I am?” I’m a member of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures!”

Winky began to rock backward and forward on the ground, her breath coming in sharp bursts. Violet was reminded forcibly of some of her own darkest moments spent in that exact same state, locked in the cupboard underneath the Dursley’s stairs.

“As you see, elf, the Dark Mark was conjured ehre a short while ago,” said Mr. Diggory. “And you were discovered, minutes later, right beneath it! An explanation, if you please!”

“I — I — I is not doing it, sir!” Winky gasped. “I is not knowing how, sir!”

“You were found with a wand in your hand!” barked Mr. Diggory, brandishing it in front of her.

“Hey,” said Harry suddenly, “that’s mine!”

Everyone in the clearing looked at him.

“Excuse me?” said Mr. Diggory, incredulously.

“That’s my wand!” said Harry. “I dropped it!”

“You dropped it?” repeated Mr. Diggory in disbelief. “Is this a confession? You threw it it aside after you conjured the Mark?”

“Amos, for Merlin’s sake!” said Mr. Weasley, very angrily. “First one Potter, now the other? Do you  _ really _ think either of them likely to conjure the Dark Mark?”

“Er — of course not,” mumbled Mr. Diggory. “Sorry . . . carried away . . .”

“I didn’t drop it there, anyway,” said Harry, jerking his thumb toward the trees beneath the skull. “I missed it right after we got into the wood.”

“So,” said Mr. Diggory, his eyes hardening as he turned to look at Winky again, cowering at his feet. “You found this wand, eh, elf? And you picked it up and thought you’d have some fun with it, did you?”

Violet decided she didn’t like Mr. Diggory at all.

“I is not doing magic with it, sir!” squealed Winky, tears streaming down the sides of her squashed and bulbous nose. “I is . . . I is just picking it up, sir! I is not making the Dark Mark, sir, I is not knowing how!”

“It wasn’t her!” said Hermione. She looked very nervous, speaking up in front of all these Ministry wizards, yet determined all the same. “Winky’s got a squeaky little voice, and the voice we heard doing the incantation was much deeper!” She looked around at Harry and Ron, clearly appealing for their support. “It didn’t sound anything like Winky, did it?”

“It sounded like a man,” said Violet at once.

“Yeah, it was a human voice,” said Ron.

“Well, we’ll soon see,” growled Mr. Diggory, looking unimpressed. “There’s a simple way of discovering the last spell a wand performed, elf, did you know that?”

Winky trembled at shook her head frantically, her ears flapping, as Mr. Diggory raised his own wand again and placed it tip to tip with Harry’s.

_ “Prior Incantato!” _ roared Mr. Diggory.

Several wizards gasped, horrified, as a gigantic serpent-tongued skull erupted from the point where the two wands met, but it was a mere shadow of the green skull high above them; it looked as though it were made of thick grey smoke: the ghost of a spell.

_ “Deletrius!” _ said Mr. Diggory, and the smoky skull vanished in a wisp of smoke.

“So,” said Mr. Diggory with a kind of savage triumph, looking down upon Winky, who was still shaking convulsively.

“I is not doing it!” she squealed, her eyes rolling in terror. “I is not, I is not, I is not knowing how! I is a good elf, I isn’t using wands, I isn’t knowing how!”

_ “You’ve been caught red-handed, elf!” _ Mr. Diggory roared.  _ “Caught with the guilty wand in your hand!” _

“Amos,” said Mr. Weasley loudly, “think about it . . . precious few wizards know how to do that spell . . . Where would she have learned it?”

“Perhaps Amos is suggesting,” said Mr. Crouch, cold anger in every syllable, “that I routinely teach my servants to conjure the Dark Mark?”

There was a deeply unpleasant silence. Amos Diggory looked horrified. “Mr. Crouch . . . not . . . not at all . . .”

“You have now come very close to accusing the people in this clearing who are  _ least _ likely to conjure that Mark!” barked Mr. Crouch. “The Potter Twins — and myself! I suppose you are familiar with the children’s story, Amos?”

“Of course — everyone knows —” muttered Mr. Diggory, looking highly discomforted.

“And I trust you remember the many proofs I have given, over a long career, that I despise and detest the Dark Arts and those who practice them?” Mr. Crouch shouted, his eyes bulging again.

“Mr. Crouch, I — I never suggested you had anything to do with it!” Amos Diggory muttered again, now reddening behind his scrubby brown beard.

“If you accuse my elf, you accuse me, Diggory!” shouted Mr. Crouch. “Where else would she have learned to conjure it?”

“She — she might have picked it up anywhere —”

“Precisely, Amos,” said Mr. Weasley.  _ “She might have picked it up anywhere . . .  _ Winky?” he said kindly, turning to the elf, but she flinched as though he too was shouting at her. “Where exactly did you find Harry’s wand?”

Winky was twisting the hem of her tea towel so violently that it was fraying beneath her fingers.

“I — I is finding it . . . finding it there, sir . . .” she whispered, “there . . . in the trees, sir . . .”

“You see, Amos?” said Mr. Weasley. “Whoever conjured the Mark could have Disapparated right after they’d done it, leaving Harry’s wand behind. A clever thing to do, not using their own wand, which could have betrayed them. And Winky here had the misfortune to come across the wand moments later and pick it up.”

“But then, she’d have been only a few feet away from the real culprit!” said Mr. Diggory impatiently. “Elf? Did you see anyone?”

Winky began to tremble worse than ever. Her giant eyes flickered from Mr. Diggory, to Ludo Bagman, and onto Mr. Crouch. Then she gulped and said, “I is seeing no one, sir . . . no one . . .”

“Amos,” said Mr. Crouch curtly, “I am fully aware that, in the ordinary course of events, you would want to take Winky into your department for questioning. I ask you, however, to allow me to deal with her.”

Mr. Diggory looked as though he didn’t think much of this suggestion at all, but it was clear to Violet that Mr. Crouch was such an important member of the Ministry that he did not dare refuse him.

“You may rest assured that she will be punished,” Mr. Crouch added coldly.

“M-m-master . . .” Winky stammered, looking up at Mr. Crouch, her eyes brimming with tears. “M-m-master, p-p-please . . .”

Mr. Crouch stepped back, his face somehow sharpened, each line upon it more deeply etched. There was no pity in his gaze.

“Winky has behaved tonight in a manner I would not have believed possible,” he said slowly. “I told her to remain in the tent. I told her to stay there while I went to sort out the trouble. And I find that she disobeyed me.  _ This means clothes.” _

“No!” shrieked Winky, prostrating herself at Mr. Crouch’s feet. “No, master! Not clothes, not clothes!”

Violet knew from Harry that the only way to turn a house-elf free was to present it was proper garments. It was pitiful to see the way Winky clutched at her tea towel as she sobbed over Mr. Crouch’s feet.

“But she was frightened!” Hermione burst out angrily, glaring at Mr. Crouch. “Your elf’s scared of heights, and those wizards in masks were levitating people! You can’t blame her for wanting to get out of their way!”

Mr. Crouch took a step backward, freeing himself from contact with the elf, whom he was surveying as though she were something filthy and rotten that was contaminating his over-shined shoes.

“I have no use for a house-elf who disobeys me,” he said coldly, looking over at Hermione. “I have no use for a servant who forgets what is due to her master, and to her master’s reputation.”

Winky was crying so hard that her sobs echoed around the clearing. There was a very nasty silence, which was ended by Mr. Weasley, who said quietly, “Well, I think I’ll take my lot back to the tent, if nobody’s got any objections. Amos, that wand’s told us all it can — if Harry could have it back, please —”

Mr. Diggory handed Harry his wand and Harry pocketed it.

“Come on, you lot,” Mr. Weasley said quietly. The boys shuffled over to him, but Violet and Hermione stayed put; their eyes were still upon the sobbing elf. “Girls!” Mr. Weasley said, more urgently. Hermione turned and followed Harry, Ron, and George out of the clearing, but it took a moment longer for Violet to tear her gaze from the pitiful creature on the ground. Mr. Weasley wrapped an arm around her shoulders as soon as she was in reach and hurried her along.

“What’s going to happen to Winky?” said Hermione, the moment they had left the clearing.

“I don’t know,” said Mr. Weasley.

“We should have helped her,” Violet said, shaking in a way that had little to do with the cold. Mr. Weasley’s arm tightened around her.

“There’s nothing any of us could have done for her, Violet,” he muttered uncomfortably. 

“The way they were treating her!” said Hermione furiously. “Mr. Diggory, calling her ‘elf’ all the time . . . and Mr. Crouch! He knows she didn’t do it and he’s still going to sack her! He didn’t care how frightened she’d been, or how upset she was — it was like she wasn’t even human!”

“Well, she’s not,” said Ron.

Hermione rounded on him.

“That doesn’t mean she hasn’t got feelings, Ron. It’s disgusting the way —”

“Hermione, I agree with you,” said Mr. Weasley quickly, beckoning her on, “but now is not the time to discuss elf rights. I want to get back to the tent as fast as we can. George, you said Fred and Ginny went on ahead?”

“Fred said he’d look out for you,” said George quietly. “He’ll have taken care of her, Dad, don’t worry.”

“It’s my job to worry,” Mr. Weasley muttered. “And you three,” he said to Ron, Harry, and Hermione. “How did you end up on your own?”

“We got separated in the dark,” said Ron. “Dad, why was everyone so uptight about that skull thing?”

“I’ll explain everything back at the tent,” said Mr. Weasley tensely.

But when they reached the edge of the wood, their progress was impeded. A large crowd of frightened-looking witches and wizards was congregated there, and when they saw Mr. Weasley coming toward them, many of them surged forward.

“What’s going on in there?”

“Who conjured it?”

“Arthur — it’s not —  _ Him?” _

“Of course it’s not Him,” said Mr. Weasley impatiently. “We don’t know who it was; it looks like they Disapparated. Now excuse me, please, I want to get to bed.”

He led the five of them through the crowd and back into the campsite. All was quiet now; there was no sign of the masked wizards, though several ruined tents were still smoking.

Charlie’s head was poking out of the boy’s tent.

“Dad, what’s going on?” he called through the dark. “Fred and Ginny got back okay, but all the others —”

“I’ve got them here,” said Mr. Weasley, bending down and entering the tent. The rest of them filed in after him.

Bill was sitting at the small kitchen table, holding a bedsheet to his arm, which was bleeding profusely. Charlie had a large rip in his shirt, and Percy was sporting a bloody nose. Fred and Ginny looked unhurt, though shaken.

“Did you get them, Dad?” said Bill sharply. “The person who conjured the Mark?”

“No,” said Mr. Weasley. “We found Barty Crouch’s elf holding Harry’s wand, but we’re none the wiser about who actually conjured the Mark.”

_ “What?” _ said Bill, Charlie, and Percy together,

“Harry’s wand?” said Fred.

_ “Mr. Crouch’s elf?” _ said Percy, sounding thunderstruck.

With some assistance from those who had also been there, Mr. Weasley explained what had happened in the wood. When they had finished their story, Percy swelled indignantly.

“Well, Mr Crouch is quite right to get rid of an elf like that!” he said. “Running away when he’d expressly told her not to . . . embarrassing him in front of the whole Ministry . . . how would that have looked, if she’d been brought up in front of the Department for the Regulation and Control —”

“She didn’t do anything — she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time!” Hermione snapped at Percy, who looked very taken aback. Hermione had always got on fairly well with Percy — better, indeed, than any of the others.

“Hermione, a wizard in Mr. Crouch’s position can’t afford a house-elf who’s going to run amok with a wand!” said Percy pompously, recovering himself.

“She didn’t run amok!” shouted Hermione. “She just picked it up off the ground!”

“Look, can someone just explain what that skull thing was?” said Ron impatiently. “It wasn’t hurting anyone . . . Why’s it such a big deal?”

“I told you, it’s You-Know-Who’s symbol, Ron,” said Hermione, before anyone else could answer. “I read about it in  _ The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts.” _

“And it hasn’t been seen for thirteen years,” said Mr. Weasley quietly. “Of course people panicked . . . it was almost like seeing You-Know-Who back again . . .”

“I don’t get it,” said Ron, frowning. “I mean . . . it’s still only a shape in the sky . . .”

“It’s what Voldemort’s followers put up in the sky whenever they killed,” Violet said softly, and everyone in the room flinched before turning to stare at her. Mr. Weasley’s mouth was hanging open.

“Violet, how do you know about that?” he asked weakly. Violet gave a one-shouldered shrug.

“Hermione’s not the only one who reads, sir.”

Mr. Weasley closed his mouth. He rubbed a trembling hand over his forehead.

“Yes, well . . . Violet is right, that is exactly what the Dark Mark was used for . . . The terror it inspired . . . you have no idea, you’re too young. Just picture coming home and finding the Dark Mark hovering over your house, and knowing what you’re about to find inside . . .” Mr. Weasley winced. “Everyone’s worst fear . . . the very worst . . .”

There was silence for a moment. Then Bill, removing the sheet from his arm to check on his cut, said, “Well, it didn’t help it tonight, whoever conjured it. It scared the Death Eaters away the moment they saw it. They all Disapparated before we’d got near enough to unmask any of them. We caught the Robertses before they hit the ground, though. They’re having their memories modified right now.”

“Death Eaters?” said Harry. “What are Death Eaters?”

“It’s what You-Know-Who’s supporters called themselves,” said Bill. “I think we saw what’s left of them tonight — the ones who managed to keep themselves out of Azkaban, anyway.”

“We can’t prove it was them, Bill,” said Mr. Weasley. “Though it probably was,” he added hopelessly.

“Yeah, I bet it was!” said Ron suddenly. “Dad, we met Draco Malfoy in the woods, and he as good as told us his dad was one of those nutters in masks! And we all know the Malfoys were right in with You-Know-Who!”

“But what were Voldemort’s supporter’s —” Harry began, and everyone flinched again — like most of the wizarding world, the Weasleys always avoided saying Voldemort’s name. “Sorry,” said Harry quickly. “What were You-Know-Who’s supporters up to, levitating Muggles? I mean, what’s the point?”

“The point?” said Mr. Weasley with a hollow laugh. “Harry, that’s their idea of fun. Half the Muggle killing back when You-Know-Who was in power were done for fun. I suppose they had a few drinks tonight and couldn’t resist reminding us that lots of them are still at large. A nice little reunion for them,” he finished disgustedly.

“But if they  _ were _ Death Eaters, why did they Disapparate when they saw the Dark Mark?” said Ron. “They’d have been pleased to see it, wouldn’t they?”

“Use your brains, Ron,” said Bill. “If they really were Death Eaters, they worked very hard to keep out of Azkaban when You-Know-Who lost power, and told all sorts of lies about him forcing them to kill and torture people. I bet they’d be even more frightened than the rest of us to see him come back. They denied they’d ever been involved with him when he lost his powers, and went back to their daily lives . . . I don’t reckon he’d be over-pleased with them, do you?”

“So . . . whoever conjured the Dark Mark . . .” said Hermione slowly, “were they doing it to show support for the Death Eaters, or to scare them away?”

“Your guess is as good as ours, Hermione,” said Mr. Weasley. “But I’ll tell you this . . . it was only the Death Eaters who ever knew how to conjure it. I’d be very surprised if the person who did it hadn’t been a Death Eater once, even if they’re not now . . .”

“How do you  _ stop _ being a Death Eater?” Violet demanded. “Do they just say “whoops, sorry, I didn’t mean any of it!” and get a free pass? After everything they did in Voldemort’s name?”

Mr. Weasley flinched worst of all this time. “It isn’t right, Violet, I know . . . there have been debates within the Ministry about it for years, whether or not it’s too late to hold anyone accountable . . . Listen, it’s very late,” he turned to his children, “and if your mother hears what’s happened she’ll be worried sick. We’ll get a few more hours of sleep and then try and get an early Portkey out of here.”

As the girls headed back to their own tent, Violet suddenly remembered that she was still wearing George’s sweater. She pulled it over her head and walked over to him.

“Here’s this back,” she said, holding the jumper out toward him.

“Oh — thanks,” said George, taking it with a look of surprise. “Did you stay warm, at least?”

“Yeah,” said Violet. “I did. It helped.”

George grinned. “Good,” he said, immediately pulling the jumper over his own head, “because it’s my turn now, and I’m bloody freezing.”

Violet entered the girl’s tent, smiling despite herself and all the terror that had happened tonight. The smile faded, however, when she saw Ginny and Hermione sitting up in their beds, both looking wide-awake and very worried.

“I don’t know if I can sleep,” Hermione said quietly. “I keep thinking about poor Winky . . .”

She turned her head away and wiped at her eyes. Ginny was sitting with her arms tightly wrapped around herself, staring at the floor. Violet was struck with an idea.

“Here, help me with the beds,” she said, yanking the covers off of her own bed and pulling the thin mattress onto the ground while Ginny and Hermione looked on in confusion. “Come on, we’ll pile up on the floor tonight. It’ll be warmer that way.”

After a few minutes of arranging pillows and blankets, the three of them were settled into a sort of nest in the middle of the floor, all three beds stripped of their mattresses and linens. Like pigs in a blanket they lay side by side with little Ginny in the middle.

“Is this okay?” Violet asked, noticing the way Hermione was trying to keep to the edges of the nest.

“It’s fine,” Hermione said quickly. She paused. “I’ve never had a sleepover before.”

“Why not?” said Ginny. Hermione’s face reddened.

“Nobody’s ever invited me to one,” she muttered. “I — I’ve never really had friends like this before . . . even in primary school, and then with Harry and Ron . . . well. They sleep in their dorm and I stay in mine.”

“Harry and I have always slept together,” Violet said quietly, looking at the other girls in the dark. “We’ve only had the one bed to share, so we had to, I suppose.”

“I used to always crawl into my brother’s beds when I was little,” Ginny said, her voice slightly muffled by the blankets. “They’d take turns, y’know, “who’s looking after Ginny tonight?” Then Mum said I was being childish, and started making me stay in my own room at night . . .” Her brown eyes flicked to Violet’s over the hem of the quilt. “Was it hard for you and Harry, coming to Hogwarts and being separated?”

“At first, yeah,” said Violet. “We’d never been apart like that before, ever. And everything about Hogwarts was so new and scary . . . but it’s been easier as we get older. Now we have to get used to sharing a bed again during the summers, instead of getting used to sleeping on our own.” Violet hesitated for a moment. “I still like this better, though,” she said finally. “Sleeping with somebody else. It just feels . . . I dunno . . . safer.”

The three of them were quiet for a long time. The tent was silent except for the sounds of their own soft breathing, and Violet was sure at least one of them must have fallen asleep. But then Hermione said softly, “I do feel safe now . . . more than I think I would if we were all spread out. Thank you, Violet.”

“For what?”

“For inviting me to a sleepover,” said Hermione.

She, Violet, and Ginny all giggled together, bundled up amongst the pillows and blankets from all of their beds. It was a strangely buoyant moment, brief levity in the midst of the night’s chaos and panic. Warmth spread through Violet’s limps and into her head, lulling her into a soft, easy, dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, y'all. One of my resolutions is to get back into writing. Last year had a rough ending and this year had a bumpy start for me, but things have been steadily picking up. Fingers crossed!


	6. Mayhem at the Ministry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Mr. Weasley woke them after only a few hours of sleep. While he seemed surprised to find Violet, Ginny, and Hermione all bundled up together on the floor, he made no comment beyond asking if they slept well. He used magic to pack up the tents, and then they left the campsite as quickly as possible, passing Mr. Roberts at the door of his cottage. Mr. Roberts had a strange, dazed look about him, and he waved them off with a vague “Happy Christmas.”

“He’ll be alright,” said Mr. Weasley quietly as they marched off onto the moor. “Sometimes, when a person’s memory’s modified, it makes them a bit disoriented for a while . . . and that was a big thing they had to make him forget . . .”

They heard urgent voices as they approached the spot where the Portkeys lay, and when when they reached it, they found a great number of witches and wizards gathered around Basil, the keeper of the Portkeys, all clamoring to get away from the campsite as fast as they could. Mr. Weasley had a hurried discussion with Basil; they joined the queue, and were able to take an old rubber tire back to Stoatshead Hill before the sun had really risen. They walked back through Ottery St. Catchpole and up the damp lane toward the Burrow in the dawn light, talking very little because they were so exhausted, and thinking longingly of their breakfast. As they rounded the corner and the Burrow came into view, a cry echoed along the lane.

“Oh thank goodness, thank goodness!”

Mrs. Weasley, who had evidently been waiting for them in the front yard, came running toward them, still wearing her bedroom slippers, her face pale and strained, a rolled-up copy of the  _ Daily Prophet _ clutched in her hand.

“Arthur — I’ve been so worried —  _ so worried  _ —”

She flung her arms around Mr. Weasley’s neck, and the  _ Daily Prophet _ fell out of her hand onto the ground. Looking down, Violet saw the headline:  _ SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP, _ complete with a twinkling black-and-white photograph of the Dark Mark over the treetops.

“You’re alright,” Mrs. Weasley muttered distractedly, releasing Mr. Weasley and staring around at them all with red eyes, “you’re alive . . . Oh  _ boys . . .” _

And to everybody’s surprise, she seized Fred and George and pulled them both into such a tight hug that their heads banged together.

_ “Ouch! _ Mum — you’re strangling us —”

“I shouted at you before you left!” Mrs. Weasley said, starting to sob. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about! What if You-Know-Who had got you, and the last thing I ever said to you was that you didn’t get enough O.W.Ls? Oh Fred . . . George . . .”

“Come on, now, Molly, we’re all perfectly okay,” said Mr. Weasley soothingly, prising her off the twins and leading her back toward the house. “Bill,” he added in an undertone, “pick up that paper, I want to see what it says . . .”

When they were all crammed into the tiny kitchen, and Hermione had made Mrs. Weasley a cup of very strong tea, into which Mr. Weasley insisted on pouring a shot of Ogdens Old Firewhiskey, Bill handed his father the newspaper. Mr. Weasley scanned the front page while Percy looked over his shoulder.

“I knew it,” said Mr. Weasley heavily.  _ “Ministry blunders . . . culprits not apprehended . . . lax security . . . Dark wizards running unchecked . . . national disgrace . . . _ Who wrote this? Ah . . . of course . . . Rita Skeeter.”

“That woman’s got it in for the Ministry of Magica!” said Percy furiously. “Last week she was saying we’re wasting our time quibbling about cauldron thickness, when we should be stamping out vampires! As if it wasn’t  _ specifically _ stated in paragraph twelve of the Guidelines for the Treatment of Non-Wizard Part-Humans —”

“Do us a favor, Percy,” said Bill, yawning, “and shut up.”

“I’m mentioned,” said Mr. Weasley, his eyes widening behind his glasses as he reached the bottom of the  _ Daily Prophet _ article.

“Where?” spluttered Mrs. Weasley, choking on her tea and whiskey. “If I’d seen that, I’ve have known you were alive!”

“Not by name,” said Mr. Weasley. “Listen to this:  _ ‘If the terrified wizards and witches who waited breathlessly for news at the edge of the wood expected reassurance from the Ministry of Magic, they were sadly disappointed. A Ministry official emerged some time after the appearance of the Dark Mark alleging that nobody had been hurt, but refusing to give any more information. Whether this statement will be enough to quash the rumors that several bodies were removed from the woods an hour later, remains to be seen.’ _ Oh really,” said Mr. Weasley, handing the paper to Percy. “Nobody  _ was _ hurt. What was I supposed to say?  _ Rumours that several bodies were removed from the woods . . . _ well, there certainly will be rumors now she’s printed that.”

He heaved a deep sigh. “Molly, I’m going to have to go into the office; this is going to take some smoothing over.”

“I’ll come with you, Father,” said Percy importantly. “Mr. Crouch will need all hands on deck. And I can give him my cauldron report in person.”

He bustled out of the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley looked most upset.

“Arthur, you’re supposed to be on holiday! This hasn’t got anything to do with your office; surely they can handle this without you?”

“I’ve got to go, Molly,” said Mr. Weasley. “I’ve made things worse. I’ll just change into my robes and I’ll be off . . .”

“Mrs. Weasley,” said Harry suddenly, “Hedwig hasn’t arrived with a letter for me, has she?”

“Hedwig, dear?” said Mrs. Weasley distractedly. “No . . . no, there hasn’t been any post at all . . .”

Harry looked out for a moment, then looked meaningfully at Ron and Hermione and said, “Alright if I go dump my stuff in your room, Ron?”

“Yeah . . . think I will too,” said Ron at once. “Hermione?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, and the three of them marched out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Violet rolled her eyes.

“Honestly,” she muttered, “they could just say they wanted to speak in private . . .” She sank heavily into a chair at the kitchen table, unsure what to do as all the Weasleys slowly ambled off to other parts of the house. Violet was about to offer to help with breakfast when a flicker caught her eye from across the table; Percy had left the  _ Prophet _ laying open and a familiar face was looking out at her in black-and-white from the creased pages: Harry’s godfather, Sirius Black.

Violet leaned across the table and pulled the paper in front of herself, smoothing it out to see the article. The Sirius in the photograph was very different from the Sirius that Violet had last seen in person; gone were the thick mats of filthy hair; his face was no longer waxy and sunken — while still very thin, it looked as though he’d had a few square meals over the last month. He was not, however, smiling. The photo of Sirius looked rather annoyed, like it didn’t actually want to be in front of the camera at all but had no choice. Violet scanned the title, _“BLACK’S ACQUITTAL —_ _A SLIPPERY SLOPE?”,_  before dropping her eyes and quickly scanning the article.

The author seemed to think that Sirius’ escape/release from Azkaban had something to do with the masked march at the Quidditch World Cup, and even proposed that “more” convicted murderers might soon be acquitted and put back into the streets of the wizarding world. This was ridiculous, because Sirius wasn’t a murderer and wasn’t ever a supporter of Voldemort.

Logically, Violet could understand how it looked to someone who had grown up hearing stories of the horrendous crimes Sirius had supposedly committed: killing thirteen people with a single curse was a terrifying feat, enough to earn him infamy even before he became the first person to ever escape from Azkaban, the wizard prison. And now, months later, supporters of Lord Voldemort were marching openly and terrorizing Muggles from behind their masks — if this was truly like the “old days” as Mr. Weasley said, it made perfect sense for people to be suspicious and afraid. But it wasn’t Sirius they should be worried about. Peter Pettigrew was the true culprit of all the crimes Sirius had been imprisoned for, and though enough witnesses had seen him to confirm that he was in fact alive, he had managed to avoid being taken into Ministry custody. Pettigrew was still out there — as far as anyone knew, he could have been searching for his old master right that moment . . .

It was a frightening, worrying thought, and Violet had had enough of being frightened and worried for one day. She closed the newspaper and pushed it back across the table, and was getting to her feet when she heard a sharp rapping at the window. Violet looked up and saw a large, white owl perched on the sill, staring expectantly in at her; Hedwig had returned.

Violet rushed to open the window and let Hedwig in. She had two letters tied to her leg, and Violet made sure to stroke her head affectionately before reaching for them.

“Harry’s upstairs,” she told the owl idly, turning the letters over in her hands. One was addressed specifically to Harry and was almost certainly from Sirius, and the other had both their names written on the envelope in writing that Violet recognized as belonging to her own godfather, Remus Lupin. She opened the letter at once and unfurled it to read:

 

_ Harry & Violet, _

 

_ Thank you for keeping me informed. Glad to hear the two of you are with the Weasleys, hope you’ve enjoyed your summer. I heard about what happened at the Quidditch Cup. I’m so glad that you’re both safe. Please come see me as soon as possible when you arrive at school. My new office is on the third floor, near a very useful statue. _

 

_ Professor R.J. Lupin _

 

It was a very rushed letter, and Violet was almost certain that the word ‘Professor’ had been added as an afterthought, judging by its cramped placement. Glad as she was to hear from Professor Lupin at all, it was disappointing that the message was so brief.

Violet folded the letter, stuffed it back in its envelope, and went to look for Harry. She found him exactly where she expected: in Ron’s bedroom with Ron and Hermione, huddled together and whispering quietly.

“Bloody hell,” said Ron, jumping to his feet as Violet flung open the door, “haven’t you heard of knocking?”

“No,” Violet said flatly. She held the letters out toward Harry. “Hedwig’s back. She brought letters from Remus and Sirius.”

“Don’t you mean ‘Professor Lupin?’” Hermione said, frowning, as Harry scrambled to his feet and snatched the letters out of Violet’s grasp.

“He’s more than a professor to me, though,” Violet said. Hermione still looked unconvinced, but thankfully left the matter alone. 

“This one’s been opened,” Harry said suddenly, holding up the letter from Remus in suspicion. Violet rolled her eyes.

“Yeah, it has — by me. I read it in the kitchen.”

“Oh.” Harry frowned. He read quickly over the short letter. “Says he wants us to come see him . . . ‘near a very useful statue,’ on the third floor . . . d’you reckon he means the One-Eyed Witch?”

The One-Eyed Witch was a statue of a humpbacked old crone, which was the most useful statue Violet could think of — if one knew the correct spell and tapped the witch with your wand, her hump would slide open to reveal a passageway that ran straight into the cellar of Honeydukes Sweet Shop in the wizarding village of Hogsmeade; Harry and Violet had made use the statue and passage several times during the previous year, to visit Hogsmeade with their friends when they were not technically allowed.

“I still can’t believe Dumbledore isn’t letting him keep the Defense Against the Dark Arts job,” Hermione said. “He’s the best teacher we’ve ever had —”

“Even Lockhart?” Ron said quickly, grinning even as Hermione glared at him. Gilderoy Lockhart was their Defense Against the Dark Arts professor during their second year at Hogwarts; he was very handsome, utterly incompetent, and had completely lost his memories at the end of the year due to a backfired spell. Once, Hermione had been quite taken with him.

“I’m quite interested in this new subject of his, however,” Hermione continued loudly, ignoring Ron’s jibe. “‘Beings and Beasts’ sounds like a fascinating topic. I just hope I’ll have time for it this year.”

The four of them shared a sly, knowing glance. Hermione had had plenty of time for her extra lessons last year thanks to the use to a Time-Turner. The little golden hourglass was instrumental in saving Sirius’ life, too — but Hermione had given it back at the end of the year, for reasons that Violet couldn’t entirely fathom.

“Had a time convincing Mum to sign the permission form for it,” said Ron. “We had to get Dad to talk her into it.”

“Why?” Violet asked, surprised.

“Well, ‘cause he’s a werewolf, isn’t he?” Ron said, looking uncomfortable. “And I mean,  _ we _ know he’s alright, and I told her all about the letter you had people signing at the end of the year, but . . . she was scared, I s’pose. We all grew up hearing horror stories about werewolves sneaking into your room at night and stealing you away to join their packs — horrible stuff, I know!” Ron added, seeing the look on Violet’s face. “But she gave us all permission in the end, after Dad talked with her! He’s met werewolves coming in an out of the Ministry for trials or registration or something like that. He told her we’d be alright with Lupin.”

“Sirius’s trial is being moved up,” Harry said suddenly. Violet, Ron, and Hermione all looked at him. “Only by a few days,” he said, reading from the parchment in his hands, “but Sirius says he pushed to have it as soon as possible. He says he might be able to visit us in Hogsmeade!”

“That’s brilliant!” said Violet, her face splitting into a grin to match her brother’s. “When the trial?”

Harry looked back down at the letter and said, “The third — that’s only a few days away!”

“If only it had been sooner, we might’ve gotten to see him before going to school.”

“You’ll be lucky to see him at all, no matter when,” said Hermione. Harry frowned at her.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ve been reading about the justice system in the wizarding world,” Hermione said, not looking at him. “When I learned that Sirius hadn’t been given a trial the first time around, I decided to look into it. Unfortunately there’s a precedent for that sort of thing in the wizarding courts. The fact that he’s given a fair trial  _ now _ is more surprising than the way he was treated before.”

“But they’ll have to let him go!” said Ron passionately. “After what we heard, and seeing Pettigrew — Dumbledore was there, and he’s going to testify on Sirius’ behalf, isn’t he? There’s no way they could send him back to Azkaban!”

“I wish  _ we _ could testify,” said Harry. Hermione scoffed.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Harry — Sirius is going to have a hard enough time convincing the Wizengamot to believe his story without having to listen to a bunch of teenagers. They’d never take us seriously.”

“But we were there!” Ron said angrily. “We’re the ones who know everything that happened, not Dumbledore! He heard it all from us in the first place.”

“And from Remus,” Violet added, “but he’s not going to testify, either. I asked him about it a few weeks ago — he wanted to, but I don’t suppose any of the judges want to listen to what a werewolf has to say.”

“So who  _ is _ testifying, then?” Ron said. “Not us and not Lupin — it’s not like they can put Pettigrew himself on the stand, can they? He got away from them as well.”

“Snape’s testifying,” Harry said grimly. “Sirius says so in the letter.”

“Well, then it’s going to be alright. Professor Snape actually present, so he’ll be able to tell the Ministry the truth,” Hermione said, though she herself didn’t seem particularly convinced. She, Harry, and Ron all glanced cautiously at Violet. Normally, any time they criticised their Potions professor Violet would speak up his in defense — he was her Head of House after all, and had gone out of his way in the past to look after her; for the last two years, Violet had been privileged enough to receive private Potions lessons from Professor Snape himself, giving her a definite edge over the rest of the class.

But this time she remained silent.

As much as Violet had looked up to Professor Snape over the years, her trust in him had been severely damaged at the end of the last term. Not only had he been extremely reluctant to admit Sirius’ innocence, even going so far as saying that he’d only heard a “version” of the truth, but it was also him that put Lupin’s teaching career in jeopardy — in a fit of what Violet could only imagine was frustration and vengeful rage, Professor Snape had revealed to all of Slytherin House that Lupin was a werewolf, thus endangering his livelihood and future. This was not something that Violet could so easily justify or forgive. It was, to her, a terrible betrayal.

“Sirius will be released because he’s innocent,” Violet said, ignoring Hermione’s comment about Snape entirely. “As long as he’s able to tell his story the court will have to believe him, and he’ll be a free man. Otherwise there’s not much point, is there?”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all looked at each other anxiously.

“I sure hope you’re right, Violet,” Ron said, flopping backward onto his bed.

“She is,” said Harry. He looked up at Violet, a small grin forming on his face. “Don’t you know, Ron? Vi’s always right.”

 

Neither Mr. Weasley nor Percy were at home much over the following week. Both left the house each morning before the rest of the family got up, and returned well after dinner every night.

“It’s been an absolute uproar,” Percy told them importantly the Sunday evening before they were due to return to Hogwarts. “I’ve been putting out fires all week. People keep sending Howlers, and of course, if you don’t open a Howler straight away, it explodes. Scorch marks all over my desk and my best quill reduced to cinders.”

“Why are they all sending Howlers?” asked Ginny, who was mending her copy of  _ One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _ with Spellotape on the rug in front of the living room fire.

“Complaining about the security at the World Cup,” said Percy. “They want compensation for their ruined property. Mundungus Fletcher’s put in a claim for a twelve-bedroom tent with an en-suite Jacuzzi, but I’ve got his number. I know for a fact he was sleeping under a cloak propped on sticks.”

Mrs. Weasley glanced at the grandfather clock in the corner. It was a remarkable clock. It was completely useless if you wanted to know the time, but otherwise very informative. It had nine golden hands, and each of them was engraved with one of the Weasley Family’s names. There were no numerals around the face, but descriptions of where each family member might be. “Home,” “school,” and “work” were there, but there was also “travelling,” “lost,” “hospital,” “prison,” and, in the position where the number twelve would be on a normal clock, “mortal peril.”

Eight of the hands were currently pointing to the “home” position, but Mr. Weasleys, which was the longest, was still pointing to “work.” Mrs. Weasley signed.

“Your father hasn’t had to go into the office on weekends since the days of You-Know-Who,” she said. “They’re working him far too hard. His dinner’s going to be ruined if he doesn’t come home soon.”

“Well, Father feels he’s got to make up for his mistake at the match, doesn’t he?” he said Percy. “If truth be told, he was a tad unwise to make a public statement without clearing it with his Head of Department first —”

“Don’t you dare blame your father for what that wretched Skeeter woman wrote!” said Mrs. Weasley, flaring up at once.

“If Dad hadn’t said anything, she would have just said it was disgraceful that nobody from the Ministry had commented,” said Bill, who was playing chess with Ron. “Rita Skeeter never makes anyone look good. Remember, she interviewed all the Gringotts’ Charm Breakers once, and she called me a ‘long-haired pillock?’”

“Well, it  _ is _ a bit long, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley gently. “If you’d just let me —”

_ “No, _ Mum.”

Rain lashed against the living room window. Hermione was immersed in  _ The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, _ copies of which Mrs. Weasley had bought for her, Harry, and Ron in Diagon Alley — Violet had, very stealthily, tucked a small pouch of coin into Mrs. Weasley’s handbag to repay her, knowing she would never take the money if it was offered up front. Charlie was darning a fireproof balaclava. Harry was polishing his Firebolt while Violet, also, had her nose in a book. Fred and George were sitting in a far corner, quills out, talking in whispers, their heads bent over a piece of parchment.

“What are you two up to?” said Mrs. Weasley sharply, her eyes on her twins.

“Homework,” said Fred vaguely.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re still on holiday,” said Mrs. Weasley.

“Yeah, we’ve left it a bit late,” said George.

“You’re not, by any chance, writing out a  _ new order form, _ as you?” said Mrs. Weasley shrewdly. “You wouldn’t be thinking of restarted Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, by any chance?”

“Now, Mum,” said Fred, looking up at her, a pained look on his face. “If the Hogwarts Express crashed tomorrow, and George and I died, how would you feel to know that the last thing we ever heard from you was an unfounded accusation?”

Everyone laughed, even Mrs. Weasley.

“Oh your father’s coming!” she said suddenly, looking up at the clock again.

Mr. Weasley’s hand had suddenly spun from “work” to “travelling”; a second later it had shuddered to a halt on “home” with the others, and they heard him calling from the kitchen.

“Coming, Arthur!” called Mrs. Weasley, hurrying out of the room.

A few moments later, Mr. Weasley came into the warm living room carrying his dinner on a tray. He looked completely exhausted.

“Well, the fat’s really in the fire now,” he told Mrs. Weasley as he sat down in an armchair near the hearth and toyed unenthusiastically with his somewhat shriveled cauliflower. “Rita Skeeter’s been ferreting around all week, looking for more Ministry mess-ups to report. And now she’s found out about poor old Bertha going missing, so that’ll be the headline in the  _ Prophet _ tomorrow. I  _ told _ Bagman he should have sent someone to look for her ages ago.”

“Mr. Crouch has been saying it for weeks and weeks,” said Percy swiftly.

“Crouch is very lucky Rita hasn’t found out about Winky,” said Mr. Weasley irritably. “There’d been a week’s worth of headlines in his house-elf being caught holding the way the wand that conjured the Dark Mark.”

“I thought we were all agreed that that elf, while irresponsible, did  _ not _ conjure the Mark?” said Percy hotly.

“If you ask me, Mr. Crouch is very lucky no one at the  _ Daily Prophet _ knows how mean he is to elves!” said Hermione angrily.

“Now look here, Hermione!” said Percy. “A high-ranking Ministry official like Mr. Crouch deserved unswerving obedience from his servants —”

“His  _ slave, _ you mean!” said Hermione, her voice rising passionately, “because he didn’t  _ pay _ Winky, did he?”

“I think you’d all better go upstairs and check that you’ve packed properly!” said Mrs. Weasley, breaking up the argument. “Come on now, all of you . . .”

Violet closed her book — her recently acquired copy of  _ Hairy Snout, Human Heart, _ an anonymous werewolf’s autobiography — with a snap and headed back upstairs with Ginny and Hermione. The rain sounded even louder near the top of the house, accompanied by loud whistles and moans from the wind, not to mention sporadic howls from the ghoul who lived in the attic. Crookshanks was asleep on Violet’s bed, and barely cracked open a single orange eye when they entered. 

“Budge up, Crooks,” Violet said to the cat, lifting him despite his disgruntled mews so that she could lay her belongings out on the bed. She set Crookshanks down on her pillow where he immediately went about settling in again, eyeing her unhappily all the while.

“Here’s the stuff Mum got for us in Diagon Alley,” Ginny said, holding out two bulging shopping bags out to Violet and Hermione. “And I think she got some gold out of your vault for you, Violet . . . and she’s washed all our socks.”

Violet carefully emptied the bag’s parcels onto her bed and dropped the money bag and a load of socks next to it. She started unwrapping the shopping. Apart from  _ The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, _ by Miranda Goshawk, she had a handful of new quills, a dozen rolls of parchment, and refills for her potion-making kit — she had been running low on lionfish spines and essence of belladonna. She was just matching up her socks when there was a rap at the door, and Mrs. Weasley stuck her head in.

“Still packing, girls? Good, good, I’ve got something else for you here,” she said and bustled inside, closing the door behind her. She had in her arms what looked like a bundle of mismatched fabric. “Here, Ginny, this one’s yours” — she held out a load of pale pink chiffon, which Ginny accepted with mild alarm — “and Hermione, for you” — Hermione scrambled to collect all of the floaty blue material — “and one for you as well, Violet, dear.”

Mrs. Weasley pressed into her hands what Violet realized was not a load of fabric at all, but a dress. It was dark green and made of some sort of patterned satiny material, with great poofy sleeves and dozens of little pink flowers sewn onto the front. Violet held it out in bewilderment.

“Wh-what’s this for?”

“It says on your school list you’ve got to have dress robes for this year,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Clothes for formal occasions.”

“Where did you get this from?” Ginny asked, holding out her dress as well. It had a very lovely embroidered collar with lace trim.

“I made yours, Ginny, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley, flushing slightly. “I used to make all your dresses, do you remember? That was when you were little, of course — before you stopped letting me pick out your clothes for you.”

Ginny’s face went beet red. She turned quickly under the guise of holding the dress up the light. Hermione was staring at her dress as well, eyes wide and sparkling.

“Mrs. Weasley, this is beautiful! I didn’t know you were such a skilled seamstress.”

“Oh, well thank you, dear. I wish that I could take the credit for it,” said Mrs. Weasley with a small chuckle. “I bought that dress ages ago, for some party or another that Arthur was invited to. I only wore it the once . . . too nervous about it catching on something, or getting a stain. I couldn’t fit into it now, of course, but it should fit you nicely. And yours, Violet —”

Violet tore her eyes from the dress to meet Mrs. Weasley’s gaze, which was oddly bright.

“It’s a hand-me-down, dear, I — I hope you don’t mind. It’s a bit old-fashioned I’m afraid, but it ought to suit you nicely. Arthur’s sister was on the tall side as well.”

“Aunt Tessie?” Ginny exclaimed, looking over at Violet’s dress. “How come I’ve never seen her dressed like  _ that?” _

Mrs. Weasley shook her head and said, “No, not Tessie — goodness, can you imagine — this was your father’s oldest sister, Imogen.”

Ginny frowned. “I’ve didn’t know I had an Aunt Imogen.”

“She passed away before you were born, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley gently. “It was very sudden . . . your father doesn’t like to talk about her very much.” She took a deep breath and smiled at Violet. “But she was a very elegant woman, and I’d hate for this dress to spend another thirty years collecting dust. You might want to let it air out before wearing it, Violet.”

Now that Mrs. Weasley mentioned it, the dress did have a rather musty odor to it. Not that that detracted from it’s beauty, or the sentimental value behind it. Violet had never worn a dress like this before; come to think of it, she hadn’t worn a dress since she was very young, before she was big enough to start wearing Aunt Petunia’s old clothes.

“Thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” said Violet quietly. “I’ll be really careful with it, I promise.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about it, dear,” said Mrs. Weasley. “It’s yours now.”

“Oh,” Violet said. 

And then suddenly she was crying.

It was such a simple thing, to be given an article of hand-me-down clothing, but the fact that this dress had once belonged to a family member — one that was no longer living, no less — and that the Weasleys trusted Violet, cared about her enough to let her have it — It was all too much. Violet bit down on the inside of her lip to try and stop the flow of tears, but the next moment she found herself pulled into a warm, crushing hug. Mrs. Weasley was holding her tightly to her chest and, even though Violet was quite a bit taller than her, she managed to rest her chin on Mrs. Weasley’s shoulder.

“You’re part of this family now,” Mrs. Weasley said fiercely, sounding quite tearful herself. “I’m afraid you’re stuck with us, dear.”

Violet let out a gasp of laughter and wrapped her arms around Mrs. Weasley as well, as much as she was able. Mrs. Weasley let go of her with one arm and gestured at Ginny and Hermione. “Get in here, you two. Come on, we’re having a hug.”

Ginny awkwardly approached only to be yanked into hers mother’s arm and squashed against Violet’s side, and Hermione was treated to the same fate as soon as she was in reach.

“I know you’re used to hearing people tell the boys to look after you,” Mrs. Weasley said, her voice slightly muffled, “and they do as best a job they can, bless them — but you’ve got to look after each other as well, girls. If there’s one lesson I can pass onto you, it’s that you’ve  _ got _ to take care of one another. And if you ever need help, if you’re too scared or angry or can’t handle something on your own, you can come to me —  _ all _ of you, you can always come to me for anything you need. Do you understand that?”

The three girls nodded awkwardly, as much as they could in their cramped positions, and Mrs. Weasley finally released them all. Violet’s weren’t they only pair of damp eyes in the room anymore. They all took a moment to collect themselves, and Mrs. Weasley heaved a heavy sigh and smiled around at Violet, Ginny, and Hermione.

“I’ll let you get back to packing up your things,” said Mrs. Weasley. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes with her sleeve. “I’ve got to go and check the boys, anyways. Goodness knows if I don’t, they won’t have a single thing folded.”

All of them chuckled at that. Then Mrs. Weasley gave a little wave and left the room without another word, closing the door behind her again. Violet, Ginny, and Hermione stared at the door for a moment, then glanced around at each other before nervously looking away again. They resumed packing in silence, and went to bed without another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news! I'm actively writing again! Hopefully that means more frequent updates will be a thing again!


	7. Aboard the Hogwarts Express

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

There was a definite end-of-the-holidays gloom in the air when Violet awoke next morning. Heavy rain was still splattering against the windows as she got dressed in a jean skirt and oversized jumper; they would change into their school robes on the Hogwarts Express.

She, Ginny, and Hermione were sitting around the kitchen table waiting on their breakfast when there was a soft  _ whoosh _ from the fireplace, and Amos Diggory’s head appeared in the flames.

“Arthur!” he shouted, and Hermione sloshed orange juice all down her front in shock. “Where the devil are you?”

“Just a moment, Amos,” said Mrs. Weasley. She bustled out of the kitchen and hollered up the stairs, “Arthur! Arthur, urgent message from the Ministry!”

There was a great clattering from the hall as Mr. Weasley came rocketing into the kitchen with his robes on back-to-front; he threw himself down in front of the fireplace and said, “What’s happened?”

“Mad-Eye’s off his head again,” said Mr. Diggory’s head. “I only just heard about it, Arthur, but with everything going on I thought you ought to get involved.”

“Yes, yes, of course — for heaven’s sake — Molly, a quill please —”

Mrs. Weasley began rummaging anxiously through the drawers. Violet was so busy staring at the fireplace that she didn’t even notice Harry, Ron, and the Weasley twins come in.

“. . . Muggle neighbors heard bangs and shouting, so they went and called those what-d’you-call-’ems — please-mean. Arthur, you’ve got to get over there —”

“Here!” said Mrs. Weasley breathlessly, pushing a piece of parchment, a bottle of ink, and a crumpled quill into Mr. Weasley’s hands.

“— it’s a real stroke of luck I heard about it,” said Mr. Diggory’s head, speaking very quickly and looking completely oblivious to the sparks and flames licking around it. “I had to come into the office early to send a couple of owls, and I found the Improper Use of Magic lot all setting off — if Rita Skeeter gets ahold of this one, Arthur —”

“What does Mad-Eye say happened?” asked Mr. Weasley, unscrewing the ink bottle, loading up his quill, and preparing to take notes.

Mr. Diggory’s head rolled its eyes. “Says he heard an intruder in his yard. Says he was creeping toward the house, but was ambushed by his dustbins.”

“What did the dustbins do?” asked Mr. Weasley, scribbling frantically.

“Made one hell of a noise and fired rubbish everywhere, as far as I can tell,” said Mr. Diggory. “Apparently one of them was still rocketing around when the please-men turned up —”

Mr. Weasley groaned.

“And what about the intruder?”

“Arthur, you know Mad-Eye,” said Mr. Diggory’s head, rolling its eyes again. “Someone creeping into his yard in the dead of night? More likely there’s a very shell-shocked cat wandering around somewhere, covered in potato peelings. But if the Improper Use of Magic lot get their hands on Mad-Eye, he’s had it — think of his record — we’ve got to get him off on a minor charge, something in your department — what are exploding dustbins worth?”

“Maybe a caution?” said Mr. Weasley, still writing very fast, his brow furrowed. “Mad-Eye didn’t use his wand? He didn’t actually attack anyone?”

“I’ll bet he leapt out of bed and started jinxing everything he could reach through the window,” said Mr. Diggory, “but they’ll have a job proving it, there aren’t any casualties.”

“Alright, I’m off,” Mr. Weasley said, and he stuffed the parchment with his notes in it into his pocket and dashed out of the kitchen again.

Mr. Diggory’s head looked around at Mrs. Weasley.

“Sorry about this, Molly,” it said, more calmly, “bothering you so early and all . . . but Arthur’s the only one who can get Mad-Eye off, and Mad-Eye’s supposed to be starting his new job today. Why he had to choose last night . . .”

“Never mind, Amos,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Sure you won’t have a bit of toast or anything before you go?”

“Oh go on, then,” said Mr. Diggory.

Mrs. Weasley took a piece of buttered toast from the stack on the kitchen table, put it into the fire tongs, and transferred it into Mr. Diggory’s mouth.

“Fanks,” he said in a muffled voice, and then, with a small  _ pop, _ vanished.

Violet could hear Mr. Weasley calling hurried goodbyes to Bill, Charlie, and Percy. Within five minutes, he was back in the kitchen, his robes on the right way, dragging a comb through his hair.

“I’d better hurry — you have a good term, children,” said Mr. Weasley, nodding around at them all, fastening a cloak over his shoulders and preparing to Disapparate. “Molly, are you going to be alright taking the kids to King’s Cross?”

“Of course I will,” she said. “You should look after Mad-Eye, we’ll be fine.”

As Mr. Weasley vanished, Bill and Charlie entered the kitchen. Bill’s hair was loose about his shoulders, rather than tied back as he usually kept it, and Violet quickly stuffed her mouth with toast to stop it from hanging open like a fool.

“Did someone say Mad-Eye?” he asked sleepily. “What’s he been up to now?”

“He says someone tried to break into his house last night,” said Mrs. Weasley.

“Mad-Eye Moody?” said George thoughtfully, dropping into the chair next to Ginny and reaching for his own slice of toast. “Isn’t he that nutter —”

“Your father thinks very highly of Alastor Moody,” said Mrs. Weasley sternly.

“Yeah, well, Dad collects plugs, doesn’t he?” said Fred quietly as Mrs. Weasley left the room. “Birds of a feather . . .”

“Moody was a great wizard in his time,” said Bill.

“He’s an old friend of Dumbledore’s, isn’t he?” said Charlie.

“Dumbledore’s not what you’d call  _ normal, _ though, is he?” said Fred. “I mean, I know he’s a genius and everything . . .”

“Who  _ is _ Mad-Eye Moody?” asked Harry.

“He’s retired, used to work at the Ministry,” said Charlie. “I met him once when Dad took me to work with him. He was an Auror — one of the best . . . a Dark wizard catcher,” he added, seeing Harry’s blank face. “Half the cells in Azkaban are full because of him. He made himself loads of enemies, though . . . the families of people he caught, mainly . . . and I heard he’s been getting paranoid in his old age. Doesn’t trust anyone anymore. Sees Dark wizards everywhere.”

Violet’s mouth was still full of toast, so she couldn’t mention that perhaps there  _ were _ Dark wizards everywhere. The crowd marching at the Cup wasn’t exactly small . . .

Bill and Charlie decided to come and see everyone off at King’s Cross station, but Percy, apologizing most profusely, said that he really needed to get to work.

“I just can’t justify taking more time off at the moment,” he told them. “Mr. Crouch is really starting to rely on me.”

“Yeah, you know what, Perce?” said George seriously. “I reckon he’ll know your name soon.”

Mrs. Weasley had braved the telephone in the village post office to order three ordinary Muggle taxis to take them to London.

“Arthur tried to borrow Ministry cars for us,” Mrs. Weasley whispered to Violet as they stood in the rain-washed yard, watching the taxi drivers heaving seven heavy Hogwarts trunks into their cars. “But there weren’t any to spare . . . Oh dear, they don’t look happy, do they?”

Violet didn’t like to tell Mrs. Weasley that Muggle taxi drivers rarely transported overexcited owls, and Pigwidgeon was making an earsplitting racket. Nor did it help that a number of Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks went off unexpectedly when Fred’s trunk sprang open, causing the driver carrying it to yell with alarm and pain as Crookshanks clawed his way up the man’s leg.

The journey was uncomfortable, owing to the fact that they were jammed into the back of the taxis with their trunks. Crookshanks took quite a while to recover from the fireworks, and by the time they entered London, Violet and Ginny’s hands were severely scratched. Everyone was relieved to get out at King’s Cross, even though the rain was coming down harder than ever, and they got soaked carrying their trunks across the busy road and into the station.

Violet was used to getting onto platform nine and three-quarters by now. It was a simple matter of walking straight through the apparently solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. The only tricky park was doing this in an unobtrusive way, so as to avoid attracting Muggle attention. They did it in groups today; Harry, Ron, and Hermione (the most conspicuous, they were accompanied by Hedwig and Pig) went first. Violet and Ginny followed next; they leaned casually against the barrier, chatting unconcernedly, and slid sideways through it . . . and as they did so, platform nine and three-quarters materialized in front of them.

The Hogwarts Express, a gleaming scarlet steam engine, was already there, clouds of steam billowing from it, through which the many Hogwarts students and parents on the platform appeared like dark ghosts. Pig became noisier than ever in response to the hooting of many owls through the mist. Violet was immediately on the lookout for her friends; being unable to meet up with in Diagon Alley had been a bummer, and she was determined to apologize and explain herself before they could be angry with her.

But rather than finding anyone, it was Violet herself who was found. She was heaving her trunk onto the train when a familiar shape appeared beside her to help.

“I should’ve known I’d find you here, surrounded by Weasleys,” said Cassius Warrington, grinning down at her. He was a broad-shouldered, long-limbed boy with sandy brown hair, and Violet was delighted at the sight of him.

“Cass!” she cried, throwing her arms around him at once. “I was just looking for you — where’s Tracey, isn’t she with you?”

“She’s already got us a carriage,” Cass said, awkwardly returning the hug. “We figured you’d turn up, so I’ve been keeping a lookout. Come on, we’re at the back.”

“I’ve got to say good-bye first,” Violet said, looking back down the platform at Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie, who were already surrounded by Fred, George, and the others. “Hold on, I’ll be right back —”

“I might be seeing you all sooner than you think,” said Charlie, grinning, as he hugged Ginny goodbye.

“Why?” said Fred keenly.

“You’ll see,” said Charlie. “Just don’t tell Percy I mentioned it . . . it’s ‘classified information, until such time as the Ministry sees fit to release it,’ after all.”

“Yeah, I sort of wish I were back at Hogwarts this year,” said Bill, hands in his pockets, looking almost wistfully back at the train.

_ “Why?” _ said George impatiently.

“You’re going to have an interesting year,” said Bill, his eyes twinkling. “I might even get time off to come and watch a bit of it . . .”

“A bit of  _ what?” _ said Ron.

But at that moment, the whistle blew, and Mrs. Weasley chivvied them toward the train door.

“Thanks for having us to stay, Mrs. Weasley,” said Hermione as they boarded.

“Thank you for everything, Mrs. Weasley,” said Violet earnestly.

“Oh, it was my pleasure, dears,” said Mrs. Weasley. “I’d invite you for Christmas, but . . . well, I expect you’re all going to want to stay at Hogwarts, what with . . . one thing and another.”

“Mum!” said Ron irritably. “What d’you three know what we don’t?”

“You’ll find out this evening, I expect,” said Mrs. Weasley, smiling. “It’s going to be very exciting — mind you, I’m very glad they’ve changed the rules —”

“What rules?” said Harry, Ron, Fred, and George together.

“I’m sure Professor Dumbledore will tell you . . . Now, behave, won’t you?  _ Won’t _ you, Fred and George?”

The pistons hissed loudly, and the train began to move.

“Tell us what’s happening at Hogwarts!” Fred bellowed out of the window as Mrs. Weasley, Bill, and Charlie sped away from them. “What rules are they changing?”

But Mrs. Weasley only smiled and waved. Before the train had rounded the corner, she, Bill, and Charlie had Disapparated.

Violet quickly broke from Harry, Hermione, and the Weasleys to go and find Cassius and Tracey. She didn’t have to look very hard; Cass was standing idly in the corridor of the very next car, clearly waiting for her.

“Sorry, sorry!” Violet said, hurrying over to him. “Mrs. Weasley was talking about something secret happening at Hogwarts, and they wouldn’t tell us —”

There was a loud shriek from the inside the compartment Cass was standing by, and a moment later the door had been flung open and there stood Tracey Davis, beaming brightly at Violet.

“There you are!” Tracey squealed, immediately launching herself at Violet and wrapping her in a tight hug. “Cass said he found you, but I didn’t believe him since you ran off again — oh Violet, I’ve missed you  _ so _ much!”

Tracey let of her abruptly and stepped back, holding her by the shoulders and smiling dramatically. Tracey Davis was a very short, very pretty Black girl who, while Violet had been getting taller over the years, had been growing wider instead. Her round cheeks were pulled into a wide grin, clearly trying to display her teeth.

“You got your braces off!” Violet exclaimed, staring at Tracey’s pearly-white, perfectly straight teeth.

“I know!” Tracey cried, hopping up and down. “Just last week, too! I can’t believe how different it feels after having all that metal in my mouth for two years. I’ve still got this horrible retainer” — she flicked her tongue and dislodged a previously unseen piece of bright pink plastic from the roof of her mouth, then sucked it back into place — “but it’s not nearly as bad as before.”

“God, that’s horrifying,” Cass muttered, staring at Tracey’s mouth with obvious discomfort. “Muggles are so weird . . .”

“We make do,” said Tracey brightly. She reached down and grabbed Violet’s hand, pulling her into the compartment and into the seat beside her. Cass followed and shut the door behind him before flopping into the seat opposite the girls.

“Alright,” he said, propping his feet up on the bench and looking sternly at Violet, “let’s get this over with — tell us everything you’ve been up to this summer.”

“Erm —” Violet drew up short. She had been up to a  _ lot _ this summer. It didn’t seem quite fair to dump all of that onto her friends before hearing what they had to say. “Why don’t you two go first?”

“Cass stayed home with his mother and sprained his wrist falling out of a tree,” Tracey said at once. “He was trying to get Rasputin out of a bird’s nest.”

“Wh-what?” Violet said. “Who’s Rasputin?”

“My bloody owl,” Cassius grumbled. “He flew away  _ after _ I hit the ground, of course.”

“Are you alright?”

“Just peachy. Took a day trip to St. Mungo’s in London. Convinced my mother to eat something called a cheeseburger. Meanwhile, Tracey” — he shot a look at her across the aisle — “learned how to braid her niece’s hair in about seven different ways, and mailed me a Muggle book full of frozen pictures of women smiling and touching their hair.”

“I’ve told you, they’re not frozen!” Tracey said. “That’s just how Muggle pictures look. And it was a  _ magazine, _ not a book. There’s a difference.”

“I still don’t see why you sent it to me,” Cass sniffed. “What am I supposed to know about Muggle women and their hair?”

“I was trying to show you what I’d been doing with Michaela’s hair, which you’d have realized if you stopped being thick for five minutes!”

Violet was stunned. She’d never heard Tracey speak to anyone like that, other than Pansy Parkinson, a horrible bully of a girl in their year who absolutely deserved it. But when she looked at Cass to see his reaction, Violet was surprised again to see him laughing.

It felt as though something had changed over the summer — something that she was not privy to.

“Sounds like you two have been keeping in touch,” Violet said, smiling tightly as both of her friends nodded.

“We’ve been writing each other a few times a week,” said Cassius, casually. “Mother said I was hogging the owl.”

“I wish Harry would let you borrow Hedwig more often,” said Tracey, “or maybe you could even get your  _ own _ owl! Then we’d have an easier time talking.”

“I have enough trouble looking after Crookshanks.” In the seat beside her, the cat raised his head at the sound of his name. “Besides, you could have just called me on the phone.”

“I didn’t want you get you in trouble again . . .”

“Things are different at home now. You could have called.”

Violet knew that her tone was too sharp. She could feel the laughter and joy draining from the compartment, replaced by awkward silence and tension. She didn’t know why there was such a bitter taste in her mouth over hearing Cass and Tracey talking to each other over the summer. Shouldn’t she have been happy? Wasn’t this better than having them not talk at all?

_ It would be better if they had talked to  _ me,  _ too, _ said a nasty little voice in the back of Violet’s mind. 

“So,” said Cass after a long pause. The scenery was flying past out the window; they were racing through farmland now, the ground muddy and grey after the summer harvest. “It’s your turn, I suppose, Vi. What have you been up to?”

“Harry and I spent the first month and a half at the Dursleys,” Violet started, trying to keep her voice even, “and then the Weasleys came and got us. They took us to the Quidditch Cup.”

Tracey and Cass’s mouths fell open.

“You were  _ there?” _ Tracey asked in an awed whisper. “But I read about some sort of riot that happened — did you see any of it?”

“We were in the middle of it,” Violet told her. “We were all asleep when the marching started, but Mr. Weasley woke us up and told us to run.”

“So you know what really happened then?” said Cassius suddenly. “ _ The Prophet’s _ being all sorts of cagey about it, but nobody else is publishing any information. Do you know what started it?”

Over the next half an hour Violet told them everything she knew about the incident at the Cup; the marching; the men in masks; the Muggle family being levitated above the crowd; all the people, frightening and running as the marchers advanced; the Dark Mark appearing overhead. Tracey gasped when Violet told them about being hit by the Stunning Charm, and clutched tightly onto Violet’s arm as the details about Winky and Harry’s wand being used were revealed. The thick silence had settled over them once more as Violet finished her story.

“I can’t believe it,” Cass muttered, shaking his head. “I can’t believe they’d do something like that, after all these years. How dare they — well, I was going to say ‘how dare they show their faces in public,’ but with the masks on I don’t suppose they  _ did _ dare to.”

“Harry told me they ran into Malfoy after we got separated," Violet said. She dropped her voice and leaned forward. “He said Malfoy all but admitted his father was out there marching with them.”

“Now that I  _ can _ believe,” Cass said. “Lucius Malfoy was a big name in the papers after the Dark Lord fell. I still don’t understand how the slimy bastard weaseled his way out of Azkaban.”

“The Dark Lord?”

“You-Know-Who,” Cassius explained, waving his hand dismissively. “It’s just another name for him, you know, like —”

“I know what it is,” Violet said, “I’ve never heard anyone else call him that. Only Pettigrew.”

Cassius’ face went a shade paler. His eyes darted away from Violet’s.

“It’s just what I grew up hearing,” he mumbled. “In the papers and stuff.”

“But what happened to the house-elf?” Tracey said, interrupting the swirl of questions in Violet’s mind. “Winky? Didn’t anyone help her?”

Violet shook her head. “I wanted to. Me and Hermione tried to make Mr. Crouch leave her alone, but no one would listen. Mr. Weasley pulled us away. I didn’t see what happened to her.”

“It’s  _ awful,” _ Tracey said emphatically. “I never knew house-elves were treated like that. I mean, it was bad enough when you talked about Dobby, but I didn’t realize — I dunno, I never thought there were  _ more _ of them.”

“Most old wizarding families have at least one house-elf,” Cassius said. “It’s just normal for us.”

Tracey rounded on him.

“For  _ us?  _ Do  _ you _ have a house-elf?” she demanded.

“I just said most families do, didn’t I? Ours has been around since my father was a little boy.”

Tracey’s mouth worked in soundless shock and disbelief. Cass looked between her and Violet’s startled faces and shrugged.

“We don’t hit her or make her iron her own bloody hands, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said defensively. “She’s called Bonnet — she just looks after the house and cooks for us. Muggles have maids, don’t they?”

“Muggles usually  _ pay _ their maids,” Violet said. “And they don’t make them dress in rags and pillowcases.”

Cass’s cheeks went a blotchy sort of pink, and he said, “Well it’s not like we can just give her clothes, now, is it? She’d be horrified — you just said you saw Crouch’s elf having a meltdown over being sacked —”

“Being  _ freed, _ you mean!” Tracey challenged. “After spending her whole like as a  _ slave!” _

“They’re not  _ slaves!” _ said Cassius, “We’re not keeping them or making them do things against their will!”

“So you say,” said Tracey angrily, “but have you ever actually asked your house-elf what she wants? Because it sounds like Malfoy’s house-elf was being made to do a lot of things against his will.”

“I am not like Malfoy,” said Cassius darkly. “I am nothing like that slimy little wretch,  _ nothing.” _

“Well both your families have slaves, so I suppose that’s something you have in common.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Tracey,” Cass said flatly. Tracey threw her hands up in the air.

“Unbelievable!” she cried. “Absolutely unbelievable! Violet —” Violet startled as Tracey turned to her, eyes blazing. “Tell me something else about your summer!”

“Er —”

“Talk about something else so I don’t have to listen to him anymore!”

“Oh, come on, that’s not —”

“Violet! Start talking!”

“Something’s going on Hogwarts this year,” Violet blurted, looking nervously between Tracey and Cass, both of whom were fuming. “Bill and Charlie kept making comments about it but Percy and Mr. Weasley said it had to be kept a secret, so I don’t know exactly what it is, but I suppose it must be something important for all of them to act so funny about it.”

“Who are Bill and Charlie?” Tracey asked, still staring fiercely at her.

“Ron’s older brothers,” Violet answered.

“Are they fit?”

“Oh,” said Violet, blushing immediately as she thought of Bill’s long hair and earring, and Charlie’s easy smile. “Er — yeah, actually. I mean — I suppose —”

“Tell me all about them,” Tracey demanded at once. “We never get to talk about boys and I want to.”

“Really?” said Cass incredulously. “Do you have to, while I’m sitting right —”

“Which one’s cuter, Bill or Charlie?” Tracey interrupted.

By the time Violet got around to stammering the details about Charlie’s strong, callused hands, Cass had retrieved a book from his trunk and stretched out across the length of the seats, burying his face behind the pages. He didn’t speak to either of them for the rest of the train ride. The silence continued even as they changed into their school robes, and when the Hogwarts Express slowed down at last and finally stopped in the pitch-darkness of Hogsmeade station.

As the train doors opened, there was a rumble of thunder overhead. Violet bundled up Crookshanks in her cloak as they left the train, heads bent and eyes narrowed against the downpour. The rain was now coming down so thick and fast that it was as though buckets of ice-cold water were being emptied repeatedly over their heads.

“Hello, Hagrid!” Violet yelled, seeing a gigantic silhouette at the far end of the platform.

“All righ’, Violet?” Hagrid bellowed back, waving. “See yeh at the feast if we don’ drown!”

First years traditionally reached Hogwarts Castle by sailing across the lake with Hagrid. Everyone else took the hundreds of carriages that currently stood waiting for them outside the station, pulled by great black, skeletal horses. Violet, Tracey, and Cassius climbed gratefully into one of them, the door shut with a snap, and a few moments later, with a great lurch, the long procession of carriages was rumbling and splashing its way up the track toward Hogwarts Castle.


	8. The Triwizard Tournament

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

Through the gates, flanked with statues of winged boars, and up the sweeping drive the carriages trundled, swaying dangerously in what was fast becoming a gale. Leaning against the window, Violet could see Hogwarts coming nearer, its many lighted windows blurred and shimmering behind the thick curtain of rain. Lightning flashed across the sky as their carriages came to a halt before the great oak front doors, which stood at the top of a flight of stone steps. People who had occupied the carriages in front were already hurrying up the stone steps into the castle. Violet and Tracey jumped down from their carriage — Violet accepted Cass’s offered hand to help; Tracey did not — and dashed up the steps too, looking up only when they were safely inside the cavernous, torch-lit entrance hall, with its magnificent marble staircase. Through the gathered, sopping crowd, Violet found her brother’s eye and waved.

“Good thing we made it inside,” Tracey said, shivering as she lowered her cloak from over her head. “If the rain keeps up like this the lake’s going to overflow. I’m soak — ARRGH!”

A large, red, water-filled balloon had dropped from the ceiling onto Tracey’s head and exploded. Drenched and sputtering, Tracey staggered sideways into Violet just as a second water bomb dropped — narrowly missing Cassius, it burst at Violet’s feet, sending a wave of cold water over her trainers into her socks. People all around them shrieked and started pushing one another in their efforts to get out of the line of fire. Violet looked up and saw, floating twenty feet above them, Peeves the Poltergeist, a little man in a bell-covered hat and an orange boy tie, his wide, malicious face contorted with concentration as he took aim.

“PEEVES!” yelled an angry voice. “Peeves, come down here at ONCE!”

Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and head of Gryffindor House, had come dashing out of the Great Hall; she skidded on the wet floor and grabbed Hermione around the neck to stop herself from falling.

“Ouch — sorry, Miss Granger —”

“That’s alright, Professor!” Hermione gasped, massaging her throat.

“Peeves, get down here NOW!” barked Professor McGonagall, straightening her pointed hat and glaring upward through her square-rimmed spectacles.

“Not doing nothing!” cackled Peeves, lobbing a water bomb at several fifth-year girls, who screamed and dived into the Great Hall. “Already wet, aren’t they? Little squirts! Wheeeeeeee!” And he aimed another bomb at a group of second years who had just arrived.

“I shall call the headmaster!” shouted Professor McGonagall. “I’m warning you, Peeves —”

Peeves stuck out his tongue, threw the last of his water bombs into the air, and zoomed off up the marble staircase, cackling madly.

“Well, move along, then!” said Professor McGonagall sharply to the bedraggled crowd. “Into the Great Hall, come on!”

Violet, Tracey, and Cass slipped and slid across the entrance hall and through the double doors on the right, Tracey whining angrily under her breath as she pushed her sopping hair out of her face.

The Great Hall looked its usual splendid self, decorated for the start-of-term feast. Golden plates and goblets gleamed by the light of hundreds and hundreds of candles, floating over the tables in midair. It was much warmer in here. The four long House tables were packed with chattering students; at the top of the Hall, the staff sat along one side of a fifth table, facing their pupils. Violet caught sight of her godfather, Professor Remus Lupin, sitting next to Professor Sprout. He seemed to be searching for something in the crowd of students, and his face lit up as he caught sight of Violet waving madly at him and waved back. Violet, Cass, and Tracey walked straight to the Slytherin table and sat down with the rest of their House. Harry, Ron, and Hermione walked past on the way to their own table all the way on the other side of the Hall.

“Merlin, I hope they get on with the Sorting,” Cassius grumbled, arms wrapped tightly around himself. “I’m starving.”

The Sorting of new students into Houses took place at the start of every school year, but by an unlucky combination of circumstances, Violet hadn’t been present at one since her own. She was quite looking forward to it.

Violet looked back up at the staff table, hoping to get a better look at Professor Lupin. The last she’d seen him, he’d been quite thin and dressed rather shabbily; unable to find steady work due to his condition, he’d also been able to afford much beyond the most basic necessities. Now, seated as far from him as she was, Violet couldn’t really see that much of a difference. She noticed, however, that there were rather more empty seats than usual. Hagrid, of course, was still fighting his way across the lake with the first years; Professor McGonagall was presumably supervising the drying of the entrance hall floor, but there was another empty chair too.

“Where’s the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” she said to Cassius, who also looked up at the teachers.

They had never yet had a Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher who had lasted more than three terms. Professor Lupin had taught the subject last year, but Violet knew for a fact that he wouldn’t be reprising the role. Cass looked up and down the staff table.

“Maybe they couldn’t get anyone,” he muttered, frowning.

Violet scanned the table again, more anxiously. Tiny little Professor Flitwick, the Charm’s teacher, was sitting on a large pile of cushions on Lupin’s other side. Professor Sprout, the Herbology teacher, whose hat was askew over her flyaway grey hair, was talking to Professor Sinistra of the Astronomy department. Beside her was Hagrid’s seat — only he could accommodate such a large place setting.

On the other side of the table sat Professors Vector and Burbage, who taught Arithmancy and Muggle Studies respectively. Violet, who had dropped Arithmancy from her schedule this year, carefully avoided Professor Vector’s eye. She was far more interested in the man chatting with Professor Burbage. Sallow-faced, hook-nosed, dark-haired Professor Snape was the Potions master — and head of Slytherin House. Prior to that year, Violet would have been indifferent, perhaps even pleased to see Professor Snape. But after the events of last year — trying to attack Sirius Black, and exposing Lupin as a werewolf to the entire school — Violet wasn’t so sure how to feel toward him anymore. 

On Professor Snape’s other side was an empty seat which Violet assumed was Professor McGonagall’s. Next to it, and in the very center of the table, sat Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster, his sweeping silver hair and beard shining in the candlelight, his magnificent deep green robes embroidered with many moons and stars. The tips of Dumbledore’s long, thin fingers were together, and he was resting his chin upon them, looking up at the ceiling through his half-moon spectacles as though lost in thought. Violet looked up at the ceiling too. It was enchanted to look like the sky outside, and she had never seen it look this stormy. Black and purple clouds were swirling across it, and as another thunderclap sounded outside, a fork of lightning flashed across it.

“Oh, get in here already,” Cass moaned, beside Violet, “the sooner this is over with the sooner we can  _ eat.” _

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the doors of the Great Hall opened and silence fell. Professor McGonagall was leading a long line of first years up to the top of the Hall. If Violet, Tracey, and Cassius were wet, it was nothing to how these first years looked. They appeared to have swum across the lake rather than sailed. All of them were shivering with a combination of cold and nerves as they filed along the staff table and came to a halt in a line facing the rest of the school — all of them except the smallest of the lot, a boy with mousy hair, who was wrapped in what Violet recognized to be Hagrid’s moleskin overcoat. The coat was so big for him that it looked as though he were draped in a furry black circus tent. His small face protruded from the collar, looking almost painfully excited. Violet watched him grin over at the Gryffindor table and give a double thumbs-up.

Professor McGonagall now placed a three-legged stool on the ground before the first years and, on top of it, an extremely old, dirty, patched wizard’s hat. The first years stared at it. So did everyone else. For a moment, there was silence. Then a long tear near the Bring opened wide like a mouth, and the hat broke into song:

 

_ A thousand years or more ago, _

_ When I was newly sewn, _

_ There lived four wizards of renown, _

_ Whose names are still well know; _

_ Bold Gryffindor, from wild moor, _

_ Fair Ravenclaw, from glen, _

_ Sweet Hufflepuff, from valley broad, _

_ Shrewd Slytherin, from fen. _

_ They shared a wish, a hope, a dream, _

_ They hatched a daring plan _

_ To educate young sorcerers _

_ Thus Hogwarts School began. _

_ Now each of these four founders _

_ Formed their own house, for each _

_ Did value different virtues _

_ In the ones they had to teach. _

_ By Gryffindors, the bravest were _

_ Prized far beyond the rest; _

_ For Ravenclaw, the cleverest _

_ Would always be the best; _

_ For Hufflepuff, hard workers were _

_ Most worthy of admission; _

_ And power-hungry Slytherin _

_ Loved those of great ambition. _

_ While still alive they did divide _

_ Their favourites from the throng, _

_ Yet how to pick the worthy ones _

_ When they were dead and gone? _

_ ‘Twas Gryffindor who found the way, _

_ He whipped me off his head _

_ The founders put some brains in me _

_ So I could choose instead! _

_ Now slip me snug about your ears, _

_ I’ve never yet been wrong, _

_ I’ll have a look inside your mind _

_ And tell where you’ll belong! _

 

The Great Hall rang with applause as the Sorting Hat finished.

“That’s not the song it sang when we were Sorted,” Violet said to Tracey, clapping along with everyone else.

“It sings a different one every year,” said Tracey. “This one was really good, too! Last year’s was a bit silly, I think.”

Professor McGonagall was now unrolling a large scroll of parchment.

“When I call out your name, you will sit on the stool and I will place the hat upon your head,” she told the first years. “When the hat announces your House, you will go and sit at the appropriate table.

“Ackerly, Stewart!”

A boy walked forward, visible trembling from head to foot, settled himself on the stool, and stared out at them all until his eyes disappeared beneath the brim of the Sorting Hat.

“RAVENCLAW!” shouted the hat.

Stewart Ackerly took off the hat and hurried into a seat at the Ravenclaw table, where everyone was applauding him.

“Baddock, Malcolm!”

A skinny boy with very short brown hair took the stool and balled his hands at his side as McGonagall placed the hat on top of his head.

“SLYTHERIN!”

The Slytherin table, along with Violet, erupted with cheers as Baddock came skipping over, a nervous smile on his face. He settled into a seat on the same side of the table where Violet sat and she leaned back to whisper a quick welcome to him.

“Branstone, Eleanor!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Cauldwell, Owen!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!”

“Creevey, Dennis!”

The tiny boy staggered forward, tripping over Hagrid’s moleskin, just as Hagrid himself sidled into the Great Hall through a door behind the teacher’s table. About twice as tall as a normal man and at least three times as broad, Hagrid, with his long, wild, tangled black hair and beard, looked slightly alarming — a misleading impression, for Violet knew that Hagrid possessed the kindest heart she had ever known. She waved discreetly to him as he sat down at the end of the staff table, and received a quick wink in return. Dennis Creevey put on the Sorting Hat, which immediately shouted —

“GRYFFINDOR!”

Hagrid clapped along with the Gryffindors as Dennis Creevey, beaming widely, took off the hat and hurried over to the Gryffindor table. His surname sounded familiar, and Violet realized why when she saw who he sat next to; Colin Creevey was another Gryffindor, a third year now, though in his first year he had made quite a nuisance of himself — toward Violet and Harry, at least. Even now, she could see him pointing down the table to where Harry sat, whispering excitedly to his little brother.

The Sorting continued; boys and girls were varying degrees of fright on their little faces moving one by one to the three-legged stool, the line dwindling slowly as Professor McGonagall passed the L’s. Violet’s stomach rumbled audibly as “McDonald, Natalie!” joined the Gryffindor table.

“Bloody hell, there’s so many of them,” Cassius grumbled, clapping half-heartedly when “Pritchard, Graham!” was Sorted into Slytherin. “If this doesn’t doesn’t hurry up, I’m eating that one.”

“Cass!” Violet hissed, giggling despite herself. Cass shot her a smirk, then leaned forward to grin toothily at Pritchard. Tracey wrinkled her nose as Violet laughed.

And finally, with “Whitby, Kevin!” (“HUFFLEPUFF!”), the Sorting ended. Professor McGonagall picked up the hat and the stool and carried them away.

“Finally!” said Cass, seizing his knife and fork and looking expectantly at his golden plate.

Professor Dumbledore had gotten to his feet. He was smiling around at the students, his arms opened wide in welcome.

“I have only two words to say to you, his deep voice echoing around the Hall.  _ “Tuck in.” _

Cass let out a cheer as the empty fished filled magically before their eyes. All manner of succulent meats and hearty vegetables, moats of gravy, trays and trays of bread rolls and savory pies and all forms of potatoes. Violet greedily filled her plate with everyone within reach and promptly began to stuff her face while Tracey and Cassius did the same.

The rain continued to drum heavily against the high, dark glass. Another clap of thunder shook the windows, and the stormy ceiling flashed, illuminating the golden plates as the remains of the first course were replaced, instantly, with puddings.

“Give me some of that,” Violet said, pointing to a large, mouthwateringly rich slab of chocolate cake. “No, more than that!” she said as Tracey began to cut her a narrow slice.

“You’ll spoil your figure,” Tracey said reprovingly, though she slid a much more generous slice onto Violet’s plate. “That’s what my auntie’s always saying to me, at least.”

“Rubbish,” Violet grunted, her mouth already full of chocolate gateau. “Have some, it’s really good.”

“Here I was joking about eating a first year,” said Cass, staring at Violet, “but it looks like you might be the only to actually do it.”

Violet took another huge, shameless bite of chocolate cake; she’d spent too many days and nights with her belly aching from hunger. If there was food in front of her, she was going to eat it, her ‘figure’ be damned.

When the puddings too had been demolished, and the last crumbs had faded off the plates, leaving them sparkling clean, Albus Dumbledore got to his feet again. The buzz of chatter filling the Hall ceased almost at once, so that only the howling wing and pounding rain could be heard.

“So!” said Dumbledore, smiling around at them all. “Now that we are all fed and watered, I must once more ask for your attention, which I give out a few notices.

“Mr. Filch, the caretaker, has asked me to tell you that the last of objects forbidden inside of the castle has this year been extended to include Screaming Yo-Yos, Fanged Frisbees, and Ever-Bashing Boomerangs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and be viewed in Mr. Filch’s office, if anybody would like to check.”

The corners of Dumbledore’s mouth twitched. He continued, “As ever, I would like to remind you all that the forest on the ground is out-of-bounds to students, as is the village of Hogsmeade to all below third year.

“It is also my painful duty to inform you that the Inter-House Quidditch Cup will not take place this year.”

An audible gasp rippled through the Great Hall. Before the murmurs could become too loud, Dumbledore went on, “This is due to an event that will be starting in October, and continuing throughout the school year, taking up much of the teachers’ time and energy — but I am sure you will all enjoy it immensely. I have great pleasure in announcing that this year at Hogwarts —”

But at that moment, there was a deafening rumble of thunder and the doors of the Great Hall banged open.

A man stood in the doorway, leaning upon a long staff, shrouded in a black traveling cloak. Every head in the Great Hall swiveled toward the stranger, suddenly brightly illuminated by a fork of lighting that flashed across the ceiling. He lowered his head, shook out a long mane of grizzled, dark grey hair, then began to walk up toward the teachers’ table.

A dull  _ thunk _ echoed through the Hall on his every other step. He reached the end of the top table, turned right, and limped heavily toward Dumbledore. Another flash of lightning crossed the ceiling. Violet gasped.

The lightning has thrown the man’s face into sharp relief, and it was a face unlike any Violet had ever seen. It looked as though it had been carved out of weathered wood by someone who had only the vaguest idea of what human faces are supposed to look like, and was none too skilled with a chisel. Every inch of skin seemed to be scarred. The mouth looked like a diagonal gash, and a large chunk of the nose was missing. But it was the man’s eyes that made him frightening.

One of them was small, dark, and beady. The other was large, round as a coin, and a vivid, electric blue. The blue eye was moving ceaselessly, without blinking, and was rolling up, down, and from side to side, quite independently of the normal eye — and then it rolled right over, pointing into the back of the man’s head, so that all they could see was whiteness.

The stranger reached Dumbledore. He stretched out a hand that was as badly scarred as his face, and Dumbledore shook it, muttering words Violet couldn’t hear. He seemed to be making some inquiry of the stranger, who shook his head unsmilingly and replied in an undertone. Dumbledore nodded and gestured the man to the empty seat on his right-hand side.

The stranger sat down, shook his mane of dark grey hair out of his eyes, pulled a plate of sausages toward him, raised it to what was left of his nose, and sniffed it. He then took a small knife out of his pocket, speared a sausage on the end of it, and began to eat. His normal eye was fixed upon the sausages, but the blue eye was still darting restlessly around in its socket, taking in the Hall and the students.

“May I introduce our new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” said Dumbledore brightly into the silence. “Professor Moody.”

It was usual for new staff members to be greeted with applause, but none of the staff or students clapped except Dumbledore and Hagrid, who both put their hands together and applauded, but the sound echoed dismally into the silence, and they stopped fairly quickly. Everyone else seemed too transfixed by Moody’s bizarre appearance to do more than stare at him.

“Moody?” Violet whispered. “Ron’s dad went to help somebody called Mad-Eye Moody this morning. D’you reckon that’s him?”

“Yes,” Cassius croaked, and Violet looked at him in surprise; Cass’s face was white as a sheet, his nostrils flared, his eyes fixed on where Moody sat, now spearing his third sausage. “That’s him.”

“Do you know him?” Violet asked. “Cass? Are you alright?”

When Cassius didn’t respond, Violet reached up and placed a hand lightly on his arm; he flinched sharply away from her.

“No,” he said, now looking pointedly away from both her and Moody. “No, I don’t.”

“What happened to him?” Tracey whispered, craning around Violet to see; she was too transfixed by Moody to notice Cass’s reaction to the man. “What happened to his  _ face?” _

Moody seemed totally indifferent to his less-than-warm welcome. Ignoring the jug of pumpkin juice in front of him, he reached again into his travelling cloak, pulled out a hip flask, and took a long draught from it. As he lifted his arm to drink, his cloak was pulled a few inches from the ground and Violet saw, below the table, several inches of carved wooden leg, ending in a clawed foot.

Dumbledore cleared his throat.

“As I was saying,” he said, smiling at the sea of students before him, all of whom were still gazing in fascinatin at Mad-Eye Moody, “we are to have the honor of hosting a very exciting event over the coming months, an event that has not been held for over a century. It is my very great pleasure to inform you that the Triwizard Tournament will be taking place at Hogwarts this year.”

“You’re JOKING!” said a loud voice from across the Hall that Violet knew at once to belong to Fred Weasley. The tension that had filled the Hall ever since Moody’s arrival suddenly broke. Nearly everyone laughed, and Dumbledore chuckled appreciatively.

“I am  _ not _ joking, Mr. Weasley,” he said, “though now that you mention it, I did hear an excellent one over the summer about a troll, a hag, and a leprechaun who all go into a bar . . .”

Professor McGonagall cleared her throat loudly.

“Er — but maybe this is not the time . . . no . . .” said Dumbledore, “where was I? Ah yes, the Triwizard Tournament . . . well, some of you will not know what this tournament involves, so I hope those who  _ do _ know will forgive me for giving a short explanation, and allow their attention to wander freely.

“The Triwizard Tournament was first established some seven hundred years ago as a friendly competition between the three largest European schools of wizardry; Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang. A champion was selected to represent each school, and the three champions competed in three magical tasks. The schools took it in turns to host the tournament once every five years, and it was generally agreed to be a most excellent way of establishing ties between young witches and wizards of different nationalities — until, that is, the death toll mounted so high that the tournament was discontinued.”

_ “Death toll?” _ Tracey whispered, looking alarmed. “Sorry, did he just say  _ death toll?” _ But her anxiety did not seem to be shared by the majority of students in the Hall; many of them were whispering excitedly to one another, and Violet immediately swivelled to look across the Gryffindor table, where Harry’s face was upturned in clear interest.

“There have been several attempts over the century to reinstate the tournament,” Dumbledore continued, “none of which has been very successful. However, our own departments of International Magical Cooperation and Magical Games and Sports have decided the time is ripe for another attempt. We have worked hard over the summer to ensure that this time, no champion will find themselves in mortal danger.

“The heads of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving with their short-listed contenders in October, and the selection of the three champions will take place at Halloween. An impartial judge will decide which students are most worthy to compete for for the Triwizard Cup, the glory of their school, and a thousand Galleons personal prize money.”

The House table all erupted on excited whispers and people turned to their neighbors, whispering fervently about their intentions to join. Even Cass was now wide-eyed with excitement as he stared up at Professor Dumbledore, his reaction to Moody seemingly forgotten. But then Dumbledore spoke again, and the Hall quieted once more.

“Even though I know all of you will be eager to bring the Triwizard Cup to Hogwarts,” he said, “the heads of the participating schools, along with the Ministry of Magic, had agreed to impose an age restriction on contenders this year. Only students who are of age — that is to say, seventeen years or older — will be allowed to put forward their names for consideration. This” — Dumbledore raised his voice slightly, for several people had made noises of outrage at these words — “is a measure we feel is necessary, given that the tournament tasks will be difficult and dangerous, whatever precautions we take, and it is highly unlikely that students below sixth and seventh year will be able to cope with them. I will personally be ensuring that no underage student hoodwinks our impartial judge into making them Hogwarts’ champion. I therefore beg you not to waste your time submitting yourself if you are under seventeen.

“The delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving in October and remaining with us for the greater part this year. I know that you will extend every courtesy to our foreign guests while they are with us, and will give your wholehearted support to the Hogwarts champion when they are selected. And now, it is late, and I know how important it is to you all to be alert and rested as you enter your lessons tomorrow morning. Bedtime! Chop chop!”

Dumbledore sat down again and turned to talk to Mad-Eye Moody. There was a great scraping and banging as all the students got to their feet and swarmed toward the double doors into the entrance hall.

“They can’t do that!” said George Weasley, and Violet turned to see him glaring angrily up at Professor Dumbledore. “We’re seventeen in April, why can’t we have a shot?”

“They’re not stopping me entering,” said Fred stubbornly, also scowling at the top table. “The champions’ll get to do all sorts of stuff you’d never be able to do normally. And a thousand Galleons prize money!”

“Aren’t you going to be seventeen in October, Cass?” Tracey asked, speaking to Cassius for the first time since getting off the train. She joined Violet by his other side, so the two girls were flanking his towering form.

“Yeah,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “And?”

“And — are you going to put your name forward?” Tracey pressed, struggling to look up at him and navigate the crowd at the same time. Cassius shrugged.

“Hadn’t given it much thought,” he said loftily, “not that I’ve had much time  _ to _ think about it. Why?”

“Because I don’t think you should!” Tracey said at once. Cass stopped walking and stared at her.

“Why not?” he demanded.

“Because people have died!” Tracey said in a worried voice. “Seriously, did nobody else hear Dumbledore say there was a  _ death toll?” _

“He also said they were making it safer this year,” said Violet, moving closer to Cass to avoid a swarm of second years coming in their direction.

Tracey did not look convinced. “I know, but what does that  _ really _ mean, Vi? Wizards have funny ideas about safety at the best of times.”

“Ah yes, because nothing bad  _ ever _ happens to Muggles.” Cass started. “Definitely no accidents or unforseen injuries for them —”

“Oh, stop it,” Tracey snapped. “I was only trying to look out for you, you prat. Come on, Violet.”

Violet’s hand was grabbed, and she found herself being abruptly pulled away from Cassius and toward the staircase leading down into the Slytherin common room. The door was wide open, as people were steadily filtering in, and Violet was immediately at home. A crackling fire warmed the long, low common room, which was full of high-backed chairs and tables.

Tracey pulled Violet all the way down the short staircase to their own dormitory. Five four-poster beds with silken green hangings stood against the walls, each with its owner’s trunk at the foot. Crookshanks meowed in greeting as the girl’s filtered in, sitting expectantly on Violet’s pillow.

“Hey there, Crookies,” Violet said quietly, leaning down to press a quick kiss to his little orange forehead. “Do you feel like sharing the bed tonight?”

Violet and Tracey got into their pajamas and into bed. Warming pans had been placed between the sheets. It was extremely comfortable, and Violet found herself slipping off to sleep within moments. Crookshanks kneaded at the blankets before coming to nestle at her side. Violet smiled into her pillow and felt, with beautiful certainty, that she was at home.


	9. Mad-Eye Moody

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

The storm had blown itself out by the following morning, though the ceiling of the Great Hall was still gloomy; heavy clouds of pewter grey swirled overhead as Violet and Tracey huddled together to examine their new course schedules at breakfast. On the other side of the table, Cassius was perusing his own schedule and ignoring them both.

“Transfiguration this morning,” Tracey was saying, pointing at Violet’s schedule with the end of her fork, “and then Care of Magical Creatures right after —”

“We’ll still be with the Gryffindors,” noted Violet. “That’s good, I can keep an eye on Harry.”

“Heaven forbid he’s out of your sight for a moment . . .” Tracey muttered teasingly. “Oh look, we’ve got double electives this afternoon! Beings and Beasts, that’s Lupin’s new class, isn’t it? Have you spoken to him yet?”

Violet shook her head. “Haven’t had a chance to, no,” she said. “He said to come and see him as soon as I could in his last letter, so I’ll probably skip lunch to go and meet with him.”

“You never skip meals,” said Cassius, and Violet looked up to find him frowning at her over his own schedule. Her face grew slightly warm.

“I do sometimes,” she said loftily. “If it’s something important.”

Cass scowled and went back to hiding behind his course schedule.

There was a sudden rustling noise above them, and a hundred owls came soaring through the open windows carrying the morning mail. Instinctively, Violet looked up for Hedwig, but there was no sign of white among the mass of brown and grey. Now that they were back at Hogwarts, almost everyone who might want to talk to her or Harry was readily available, with the exception of Sirius. But with his trial only a day away, Violet was sure he must be too busy to write.

A great eagle owl soared down the length of the Slytherin table and swooped dramatically to land on Draco Malfoy’s shoulder, carrying what looked like his usual supply of sweets and cakes from home. Now that she had seen his mother up close, Violet was absolutely certain that it was a servant who baked them. Mrs. Malfoy didn’t look like the sort of woman to set foot in a kitchen except to bark orders.

But seeing Draco’s grinning face reminded Violet of what Harry had told her on the night of the World Cup: Malfoy, watching the chaos unconcernedly, all but admitting that his father was out there in the crowd, blasting tents and tormenting innocent Muggles. It made her sick. Worse, it didn’t surprise her at all. Malfoy had made no secret of his hatred for Muggles, or for anyone he deemed inferior to himself.

Violet thought of the little boy spinning in midair, head lolling limply, and felt her stomach turn. She pushed her plate away from her.

The sickness lasted all through their first Transfiguration lesson. Professor McGonagall was so disappointed in how few people had completed their summer homework — Crabbe and Goyle were left glowering in shame after her particularly harsh speech — that an additional essay was assigned to make up for it. Even those who  _ had _ completed the original essay were not exempt, which Violet thought was very unfair. The first day of class was spent in silent reading, and already they had homework.

Already in a foul mood, Violet was grateful when the booming bell echoed from high above them, signaling the end of the lesson. She and Tracey left the classroom in a huff and headed out the front doors, down the sloping lawn toward Hagrid’s small wooden cabin, which stood on the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

Hagrid was standing outside his hut, one hand on the collar of his enormous boarhound, Fang. There were several open wooden crates on the ground at his feet, and Fang was whimpering and straining at his collar, apparently keen to investigate the contents more closely. The Gryffindors, as usual, were already gathered, and Tracey and Violet went to stand near Harry, Ron, and Hermione. As they drew nearer, an odd rattling noise reached their ears, punctuated by what sounded like minor explosions.

“Mornin’!” Hagrid said, grinning at them all. “Glad yer all on time, yeh won’ want ter miss this — Blast-Ended Skrewts!”

“Come again?” said Ron?”

Hagrid pointed down into the crates.

“Eugh!” squealed a Gryffindor girl, jumping backward.

“Eugh” just about summed up the Blast-Ended Skrewts in Violet’s opinion, which was a strong mark of just how horrible they really were. Violet, like Hagrid, was quite keen on monsters and liked to spend time learning about as many strange and fascinating creatures as she could. These, however, were something she had no desire whatsoever to deal with. They looked like deformed, shell-less lobsters, horribly pale and slimy-looking, with legs sticking out in very odd places and no visible heads. There were about a hundred of them in each crate, each about six inches long, crawling over one another, bumping blindly into the sides of the boxes. They were giving off a very powerful smell of rotting fish. Every now and then, sparks would fly out of the end of a skrewt, and with a small  _ phut, _ it would be propelled forward several inches.

“On’y jus’ hatched,” said Hagrid proudly, “so yeh’ll be able ter raise ‘em yerselves! Thought we’d make a bit of a project of it!”

“And why would we  _ want _ to raise them?” said a cold voice. The speaker was Malfoy. Crabbe and Goyle were chucking appreciatively at his words, as they did with every stupid thing Malfoy had to say.

Hagrid looked stumped at the question.

“I mean, what do they  _ do?” _ asked Malfoy. “What is the  _ point _ of them?”

“Well, that’s the point of  _ you?” _ Violet asked loudly, unable to stop herself. All the Gryffindors laughed, and Millicent Bullstrode had to quickly hide her grin behind her hand. Malfoy’s face, now slightly pink, was livid.

“Now, now,” said Hagrid, giving Violet a look that surely would have been reproachful if he wasn’t trying not to smile. “Tha’s next lesson, Malfoy. Yer jus’ feedin’ ‘em today. Now, yeh’ll wan’ ter try ‘em on a few diff’rent things — I’ve never had ‘em before, not sure what they’ll go fer —  I got ant eggs an’ frog livers an’ a bit o’ grass snake — just try ‘em out with a bit of each.”

Nothing but deep affection for Hagrid could have made Violet and Tracey pick up squelchy handfuls of frog liver and lower them into the crates to tempt the Blast-Ended Skrewts. Unfortunately, the skrewts didn’t seem very interested in anything that was put in front of them. Violet wasn’t even sure they had mouths.

_ “Ouch!” _ yelled Dean Thomas after about ten minutes. “It got me!”

Hagrid hurried over to him, looking anxious.

“Its end exploded!” said Dean angrily, showing Hagrid a burn on his hand.

“Ah, yeah, that can happen when they blast off,” said Hagrid, nodding.

“Eugh!” said the same Gryffindor girl as before, who Violet recognized but still didn’t know her name. “Eugh, Hagrid, what’s that pointy thing on it?”

“Ah, some of ‘em have got stings,” said Hagrid enthusiastically (the girl quickly withdrew her hand from the box). “I reckon they’re the males . . . The females’ve got sorta sucker things on their bellies . . . I think they might be ter suck blood.”

“Oh my god,” Tracey said as they made their way back up to the castle for lunch an hour later, looking slightly panicked. “Those are the grossest things I’ve ever seen in my life, and they kept getting worse.”

“Worse than the flobberworms?” Violet asked, grinning slyly at her.

_ “Much _ worse — flobberworms didn’t burn or sting or try to suck my blood. At least they’re small.”

“They are  _ now,” _ said Violet, “but once Hagrid’s found out what they eat, I expect they’ll be six feet long.”

“Oh, stop it!” Tracey cried, smacking Violet’s arm. “I’m going to have nightmares about those things crawling all over me, I just know it. The best thing to do would be to stamp on the lot of them before they start attacking us all.”

They sat down at the Slytherin table and helped themselves to lamb chops and potatoes. Violet began eating eating very quickly, and was halfway through clearing her plate when Cass sat down beside her.

“Gravy’s a good look on you,” he commented, staring at her, and Violet quickly wiped her face with the back of her hand.

“Thanks,” she said, with as much dignity as she could muster with her mouth bulging with sprouts. “I hear it’s all the rage in Paris.”

Cassius choked into his pumpkin juice.

“I’ll be sure to ask the Beauxbatons students about that, when they get here,” he said, grinning. Violet flushed and continued to shovel down her food. When her plate was clean she leapt to her feet.

“I’ll be with Lupin!” she told Tracey, and departed at high speed.

It took no time at all for her feet to carry her to the third floor, down a very familiar corridor at the end of which stood a statue of a wizened, hump-backed, one-eyed old crone. This was no ordinary statue, as Violet and Harry had learned the previous year; with the right know-how, all one had to to was tap the witch’s hump with their wand, speak the magic word, and watch as the hump slid open to reveal a long, narrow passage that led all the way out of the castle grounds and into the village of Hogsmeade beyond. Violet and Harry had made the subterranean journey together several times to sneak out of the castle and join their friends — something that they would never be forced to do again, now that they had permission.

But it wasn’t the statue of the one-eyed witch that Violet had come to see. She stopped outside the door just across from it, took a moment to collect herself, and knocked.

“Come in!” called a voice from inside. Violet opened the door and peeped inside, and her face split into a wide grin.

“Hello, sir!” she said to Professor Lupin, who was rising to his feet behind his desk.

“Hello, Violet,” he said warmly, grinning as well. “I hoped it would be you — oh!”

Professor Lupin staggered slightly as Violet raced across the room and hugged him round the middle. He stiffened, and for a terrible moment she feared she’d overstepped her bounds — and then Lupin’s arms settled firmly around her and held her fast.

“I’m so glad to see you again,” he said softly, and Violet immediately felt tears spring to her eyes. She’d been very good about not crying as of late — not without practice; tears had always come easily to Violet, but she was getting tired of people mocking her for it — but at this particular moment there was no stopping it.

“Me too,” she said wetly.

They held onto each other for a moment longer before Lupin loosened his hold, and Violet was forced to concede that the hug was over. She smiled up at her godfather and quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks.

“You’ve cut your hair,” Lupin said, nodding at the fringe across her forehead.

“Aunt Petunia said it was getting too long,” she explained, and then wish she hadn’t, as concern immediately creased Professor Lupin’s brow.

“And how do you feel about it?” he asked.

“I don’t mind it,” Violet lied, reaching up to straighten her fringe. “Mrs. Weasley braided it for me before we left.”

“That was very kind of her.”

“She’s very kind, I suppose.”

Professor Lupin smiled. “The Weasleys are good people, or so I’ve heard.” He took a step back, leaning on his desk, and tucked his hands into his pockets. “I’m glad you and Harry were able to spend some time with your friends.”

“They’re Harry’s friends, mostly,” Violet blurted. “Well, I mean — I get along with Fred and George, and Ginny, but it’s Ron that Harry gets on with most, and Hermione was there as well. I didn’t get to see  _ my _ friends at all this summer.”

Violet realized that she was complaining, rather bitterly at that, and shut her mouth. Lupin was smiling at her, though, his head tilted slightly to the side. He looked healthier than Violet had ever seen him, now that she was close enough for a proper look. His young face was still prematurely lined, though less gaunt, and the dark circles under his eyes were almost completely faded. His brown robes still had patches on the elbows, but they no longer appeared worn and threadbare. 

“How was your summer?” Violet asked quickly. “Have you been here at Hogwarts the whole time?”

“Not the whole time, but I have been spending quite a bit of time here,” Lupin said. “Professor Dumbledore has been kind enough to secure a set of quarters for me to reside in year-round.”

“That’s wonderful!”

“It is, indeed,” he said, smiling, “and far more comfortable than where I was staying previously. Albus has been . . . very kind as of late. I’m very thankful to him for the opportunities he’s given me.”

“You’re a brilliant teacher,” Violet told him earnestly, “and I know you’ll be brilliant again this year. Dumbledore should’ve hired you ages ago.”

Lupin ducked his head, looking bashful.

“Thank you, Violet. I appreciate your confidence in me.”

“It’s not just me!” Violet continued. “There’s Harry and Tracey, and Cass, and loads of people — everybody who signed that letter I made last year wanted you to stay here.”

“I owe you a great deal for that letter,” Lupin said quietly, his smile fading slightly. “Really, Violet . . . I’m very grateful for the trouble you went through on my behalf —”

“It wasn’t any trouble at all, sir,” Violet said at once. “It was the right thing to do.”

Lupin blinked at her. Then, surprisingly, he laughed.

“Careful, now,” he said, “I think Harry might be rubbing off on you. That was a very Gryffindor thing you’ve just said.”

“Slytherins can do the right thing, too,” said Violet, jutting out her chin proudly. “We’re not all slimy prats like Malfoy, you know.”

“Ah, well, as an unbiased teacher, I wouldn’t know anything about that,” Lupin said, his eyes twinkling. That twinkle vanished almost at once, though, as concern creased his brow once more. “Speaking of Malfoy, actually . . . I heard that you and Harry were present at the Quidditch World Cup . . . how much of that did you get to see?”

“We were right in the middle of it,” Violet said. The lines in Lupin’s face became more pronounced as she told him all the details of what had happened that night — the masked men and the marching crowds; the floating Muggles; the Dark Mark.

“It’s a wonder more people weren’t hurt,” muttered Lupin, looking very disturbed. “Are you alright, Violet? No bumps or bruises?”

“Not a scratch,” Violet said, but then, “Well, I mean, I think I got Stunned, but that didn’t really leave a mark, so —”

_ “Stunned?” _ repeated Lupin sharply. “As in hit with a Stunning Charm?”

“Er, yeah — they weren’t aiming at me, through!” she said quickly, seeing the stricken expression on his face. “The Ministry was trying to catch whoever cast the Dark Mark, and I was running through the trees when the spell hit me —”

Lupin’s shock and outrage was headed off by the sound of a great bell ringing from somewhere overhead, signalling the start of afternoon lessons. Lupin looked down at Violet and frowned.

“Well,” he said tightly. “I’m very glad that you’re alright, at least. You’ll have to tell me about all this later on. Why don’t you find a seat, I’ve got to finish setting things up for today’s lesson.”

Violet took a seat in the front row, right in the middle of the room, and watched as Professor Lupin flipped through an open book on his desk.

The class slowly began to file in. As it was a double lesson, the Slytherins would be sharing the time with Hufflepuff — a couple of them at least. Violet watched as Suzanna Runcorn, Millicent Bullstrode, and Theodore Nott from her own House entered the room and found their seats, followed shortly by two Hufflepuff girls that Violet recognized as Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones, huddled close together and looking around nervously at their Slytherin classmates. When everyone was seated, Professor Lupin closed the door with a casual wave of his wand.

“No need to get your books out just yet,” he said, holding up a hand.

“Are we starting with another practical lesson, sir?” asked Hannah Abbott excitedly.

“Not quite, Hannah,” said Lupin, smiling slightly. “There won’t be any demonstrations from me, although —” another languid wave of his wand and a piece of chalk flew into the air and began scribbling on the blackboard in large, blocky letters; it wrote out the word BEASTS, followed by the word BEINGS, and then drew a diagonal line between them. Professor Lupin turned back to the class and said, “I would like for  _ you _ to demonstrate your knowledge on the topic. Who here can name a Beast?”

The class was silent. Violet looked around nervously, and found nearly everyone else doing the same thing, hoping someone else would go first. Lupin smiled encouragingly.

“Oh, come now, don’t make me start calling names. Think back to least year — what are some of the creatures we covered in my class?”

“Kappas?” suggested Millicent timidly. Lupin pointed at her.

“Very good, Millicent, yes. Kappas are Beasts. What else? Theodore?”

“Er — Red Caps?” said Theodore Nott.

“Red Caps, yes!” The piece of chalk was in the air again, writing out creature names beneath the word BEASTS. “What else did we cover?”

“Boggarts!” said Susan Bones.

“Aha, Boggarts! That’s a tricky one, actually. You see, while Boggarts are not Beings by any stretch of the imagination, nor are they precisely Beasts. They belong, like several other creatures we’ve covered, in a separate category altogether.”

Lupin turned toward the blackboard and, with another flick of his wand, the chalk wrote out NON-BEINGS off to the side, and the word ‘Boggarts’ just beneath it.

“Alright, keep it going,” Lupin said, “let’s a good long list up here. Suzanna, have you got something?”

“Oh, um . . . Grindylows?”

“Very good, yes. How about something we didn’t cover last year? What other creatures do you think might be Beasts, Violet?”

Violet, startled by the sound of her own name, blurted out, “Dragons?”

“Dragons!” Lupin laughed. “Yes, very beastly indeed, though some might disagree with you on that.” He gave a conspiratorial little wink, and Violet was certain he was talking about Hagrid, who had once hatched a dragon egg in his fireplace and tried to raise it inside of his small, wooden hut.

And so the first part of the class went on, going round and taking turns naming various magical creatures and monsters. Violet considered herself to have something of an advantage, though it had nothing to do with being the teacher’s goddaughter; studying monsters was a passion of hers. She had a small collection of books covering all sorts of vicious, nightmarish critters, from dwellers of the deepest oceans to inhabitants of dark woodlands. The list on the blackboard contained all manner of Beasts: Gnomes and Trolls were up there, along with Unicorns, Kelpies, Pixies, Basilisks, Kneazles, and, to everyone’s surprise, Flobberworms.

“While not known for being dangerous,” Lupin said in response to their amused disbelief, “there is a very good reason for them being on this list. Now that we’ve got some examples up here, I wonder if anyone has spotted the pattern yet?”

Professor Lupin took a step to the side, leaving the blackboard wide open so that they could all read what was written there. Hinkypunks were listed as well, but they, like Boggarts, had been placed under the heading of NON-BEINGS.

There was another topic that had been covered in last years Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons, though it remained conspicuously absent from the board; no one had, as of yet, been brave enough to call out ‘Werewolves,’ though it was plain a few people were thinking it. Out of the corner of her eye, Violet caught Suzanna mouthing the words “Should I say it?” to Millicent, who nervously shook her head.

Everyone in the room had to know that Professor Lupin was a werewolf himself. By nature of being in this classroom, each student’s parents had to sign a permission slip informing them of Lupin’s condition and allowing them to consent to him teaching their children. 

It was only because of Professor Snape that such a thing was necessary, however. If he hadn’t gone and blabbed about it to the whole school, against Dumbledore’s orders, then Lupin would still be their Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.

“What,” Professor Lupin began thoughtfully, rubbing his chin as he examined the list on the blackboard, “defines a Beast?”

“They’re dangerous?” offered Millicent.

“Are they?” said Lupin. The chalk circled both Unicorns and Flobberworms. “While Unicorns are able to defend themselves if threatened, they aren’t naturally aggressive. Nor are Flobberworms, as those who have taken Hagrid’s Care of Magical Creatures class will probably know. Flobberworms aren’t much of anything, really, other than slimy.”

The class chuckled. Lupin looked back to the board.

“So, what do all of these creatures have in common?” he prompted. “What makes them inherently ‘beastly?’”

“They — they’re all animals?” suggested Theodore uncertainly.

“A bit broad, but you’re closer than you might think,” Lupin said. He turned back to the class. “Let’s try something else, and this ought to offer you a bit more perspective. What are some Beings that you can think of? Hannah?”

“Humans,” said Hannah. A few people chuckled, but Professor Lupin nodded approvingly.

“Absolutely. All Humans are beings, without question. What else?”

“House elves,” said Violet at once. “Or, er — elves? Are there non-house Elves?”

“That is a very good question, Violet,” Lupin said as the chalk flew across the board, “and something that we will certainly be covering in the near future. Five points to Slytherin. What are some other creatures that you think could be Beings?”

“Goblins!” said Suzanna.

“Ghosts!” said Susan.

“Ah, ghosts,” said Professor Lupin, shaking his head. “I’m afraid some of them will be terribly upset with me for this, but” — the piece of chalk added the word ‘Ghosts’ under the NON-BEINGS header — “Ghosts are not, from a strictly legal standpoint, classified as Beings. A matter which has drawn heavy debate on both sides of the issue, as I’m sure The Fat Friar will be more than happy to tell you about, should you take the time to ask. I cannot offer such assurances about the Bloody Baron, however.”

The Fat Friar and the Bloody Baron were both ghosts that resided within Hogwarts, and belonged to Hufflepuff and Slytherin respectively. While the Friar was a kind, jovial sort who loved speaking to the members of his House, the Baron was as unapproachable as they came. A very serious looking man wearing robes splattered in ghostly silver blood, Violet had never seen him speaking to anyone aside from the other ghosts, and Peeves the Poltergeist; the Bloody Baron was the only person that Peeves would obey, aside from Albus Dumbledore himself. And if a creature of pure mischief was frightened of the Bloody Baron, then Violet figured she was wise to steer clear of him as well.

Lupin allowed them all to puzzle over the subject of Beings for a while longer. A surprisingly short list had been comprised, and even more names — Merfolk and Centaurs included, much to most people’s confusion — were added to the list of BEASTS.

Finally, when they all ran out of stranger non-humans to shout out the names of, Professor Lupin relented and let the piece of chalk hover attentively in the air.

“So we have Humans —” he pointed to the word Humans — “and Elves” — he pointed to Elves as well, and continued down the list — “Goblins, Vampires, Giants, Hags, and Veela listed here as Beings. That’s not a very long list, especially compared with our notes on Beasts. What does that tell you, Susan?”

Susan Bones, who appeared to be painstakingly copying each list onto a piece of parchment, jumped slightly in her seat.

“Oh — erm . . .” She looked uncertainly down at her notes. “It tells me that being a, er, Being is really selective?”

_ “Selective, _ yes, that’s an excellent word for it!” said Professor Lupin. “Five points to Hufflepuff.”

Susan beamed.

Lupin grabbed the piece of chalk out of midair and walked up the blackboard. He wrote the word ‘selective’ on it by hand and, without turning around, called, “What do you all thinks makes Beings such an exclusive little list? What traits do Beings exhibit that Beasts do not?”

“They can talk?”

“Trolls can talk, as well as Leprechauns and plenty of other creatures, Theodore. But you’re on the right track.”

“Beings can talk properly,” said Millicent, sounding confident. “Like, they know what they’re saying.”

“They  _ know _ what they’re saying, very good, we’re getting warmer!” cried Lupin encouragingly. “What’s a good word for that, ‘to know?’ Anybody?”

“They understand,” Violet said, struck with sudden clarity. Lupin turned around and pointed at her.

“Excellent, Violet,  _ yes,” _ he said excitedly. “The most important factor that separates Beings and Beasts is the level of  _ understanding _ that they are capable of. Creatures like Trolls and Jarveys may be able to mimic human speech or even be taught a few simple phrases, but because they are unable to comprehend the meaning of whatever it is they’ve learned to say, they are defined as Beasts. The standard that defines something as a Being is — and make sure to write this down, please —”

Professor Lupin waited patiently while those who hadn’t already done so scrambled to get a quill and parchment out of their bags. When the class was attentive once more, he said slowly, “A Being is defined as any creature that has sufficient intelligence to understand the laws of the magical community and to bear part of the responsibility in shaping those laws.”

Everyone dutifully copied these words into their notes and looked back up at Professor Lupin. Violet stuck her hand up the air.

“Violet, question?”

“Yes — why are centaurs classified as Beasts?” she asked. “I’ve, erm, met one before, and they seemed very intelligent and more than capable of understanding of things like language and laws.”

“Oh, yes, centaurs are very intelligent,” Lupin said, grinning. “Centaurs are a fairly advanced magical race, all things considered. They have their own laws, their own society and communities, and they are highly skilled in things like divination and astronomy.”

“But that’s not fair, then!” cried Susan Bones. “If they’re so smart, how come we’ve got them listed as Beasts!”

Professor Lupin smiled and said, “Because they asked to be.”

The students looked around at one another, dumbstruck, and Lupin clapped his hands together.

“Well,” he started, “I think that’s a good place to stop for today. We covered a lot of ground, I’m very pleased with all of you and your ability to think critically. Another five points to Slytherin and Hufflepuff. Go ahead and pack up your things, we’ll pick back up next week.”

Violet joined the class in hastily tucking away her notes, but hung back as everyone else filed out of the room, chattering excitedly. She started to approach Lupin’s desk, eager to tell him how much she’d enjoyed his first lesson, but was surprised when he gently waved her away.

“I’ve got to clean this up,” he said, gesturing to the blackboard, “and reorganize some lesson notes, now that I know what assumptions I’ll be working with. Go on to dinner, Violet, we can speak later.”

His smile was kind and encouraging, but the dismissal still stung. Violet hurried out of the classroom and joined the crowd descending the staircases back to the Great Hall and dinner. Cass and Tracey waved her over to join them in line, chatting together and seemingly made up from their previous disagreement.

“How was it?” Tracey asked excitedly as Violet approached. “What sort of homework did Lupin give?”

“None,” said Violet, forcing a smile. “And we got about ten points for asking good questions.”

“Oh, lucky,” said Harry’s voice, and Violet turned to find her brother approaching with Ron and Hermione in tow. “Trelawney gave us  _ loads _ of homework _. _ How’s Lupin?”

“You haven’t been to see him yet?” said Violet, surprised. Harry shook his head.

“I haven’t really had time,” he said with a grimace. “Maybe tonight I’ll —”

Harry didn’t finish blurting out his plans to break school rules on the first day back; a loud, cold voice rang out from behind them.

“Weasley! Hey, Weasley!”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione turned, and Violet turned with them. Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were standing there, each looking thoroughly pleased about something.

“What?” said Ron shortly.

“Your dad’s in the paper, Weasley!” said Malfoy, brandishing a copy of the  _ Daily Prophet _ and speaking very loudly, so that everyone in the packed entrance hall could hear. “Listen to this!”:

 

**FURTHER MISTAKES AT THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC**

It seems as though the Ministry of Magic’s troubles are not yet at an end,  _ writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent. _ Recently under fire for its poor crowd control at the Quidditch World Cup, and still unable to account for the disappearance of one of its witches, the Ministry was plunged into fresh embarrassment yesterday by the antics of Arnold Weasley, of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office.”

 

Malfoy looked up.

“Imagine them not even getting his name right. It’s almost as though he’s a complete nonentity, isn’t it?” he crowed.

Everyone in the entrance hall was listening now. Malfoy straightened the paper with a flourish and read on:

 

Arnold Weasley, who was charged with possession of a flying car two years ago, was yesterday involved in a tussle with several Muggle law-keepers (“policemen”) over a number of highly aggressive dustbins. Mr. Weasley appeared to have rushed to the aid of Alastor “Mad-Eye” Moody, the aged ex-Auror who retired from the Ministry when no longer able to tell the difference between a handshake and attempted murder. Unsurprisingly, Mr. Weasley found, upon arrival at Mr. Moody’s heavily guarded house, that Mr. Moody had once again raised a false alarm. Mr. Weasley was forced to modify several memories before he could escape from the policemen, but refused to answer  _ Daily Prophet _ questions about why he had involved the Ministry in such an undignified and potentially embarrassing scene.

 

“And there’s a picture, Weasley!” said Malfoy, flipping the paper over and holding it up. “A picture of your parents outside their house — if you can call it a house! Your mother could do with losing a bit of weight, couldn’t she?”

Ron was shaking with fury. Everyone was staring at him.

“Get stuffed, Malfoy,” said Harry. “C’mon, Ron . . .”

“Oh yeah, you two were staying with them this summer, weren’t you, Potter?” sneered Malfoy. “So tell me, is his mother really that porky, or is it the just the picture?”

“You shut your mouth,” said Violet — both Harry and Hermione had grabbed the back of Ron’s robes to stop him launching himself at Malfoy — “or I’ll shut it for you.”

“Feeling a bit vicious, are you, Potter?” Malfoy said with a nasty sneer. “I suppose that’s to be expected, when you’ve been raised by  _ wolves.” _

Violet only got to take one step toward Malfoy when Harry grabbed the back of her robes as well.

“You know  _ your _ mother, Malfoy?” said Harry, pulling Violet back toward him with difficulty, “that expression she’s got, like she’s got dung under her nose? Has she always looked like that, or was it just because you were with her?”

Malfoy’s pale face went slightly pink.

“Don’t you dare insult my mother, Potter.”

“Oh, I see,” Violet snapped. “You can dish it out, but you can’t take it. Pathetic,” she said, turning away.

BANG!

Several people screamed — Violet felt something white-hot graze the side of her face — she stumbled and nearly lost her footing as Harry shoved her behind him, reaching into his robes for his wand — there was a second loud BANG, and a roar that echoed through the entrance hall.

“OH NO YOU DON’T, LADDIE!”

Violet spun around. Professor Moody was limping down the marble staircase. His wand was out and it was pointing right at a pure white ferret, which was shivering on the stone-flagged floor, exactly where Malfoy had been standing.

There was a terrified silence in the entrance hall. Nobody but Moody was moving a muscle. Moody turned to look at Harry and Violet — at least, his normal eye was looking at them; the other one was pointing into the back of his head.

“Did he get you, girl?” Moody growled. His voice was low and gravelly.

“No,” said Violet, holding a hand to her cheek, “he missed.”

“LEAVE IT!” Moody shouted.

“Sorry —” Violet said, dropping her hand immediately.

“Not you — him!” Moody growled, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at Crabbe, who had just frozen, about to pick up the white ferret. It seemed that Moody’s rolling eye was magical and could see out of the back of his head.

Moody started to limp toward Crabbe, Goyle, and the ferret, which gave a terrified squeak and took off, streaking toward the dungeons,

“I don’t think so!” roared Moody, pointing his wand at the ferret again — it flew ten feet into the air, fell with a smack to the floor, and then bounced upward once more.

“I don’t like people who attack when their opponent’s back’s turned,” growled Moody as the ferret bounced higher and higher, squealing in pain. “Stinking, cowardly, scummy thing to do . . .”

The ferret flew through the air, its legs and tail flailing helplessly.

“Never — do — that — again —” said Moody, speaking each word as the ferret hit the stone floor and bounced upward again.

“Professor Moody!” said a shocked voice.

Professor McGonagall was coming down the marble staircase with her arms full of books.

“Hello, Professor McGonagall,” said Moody calmly, bouncing the ferret still higher.

“What — what are you doing?” said Professor McGonagall, her eyes following the bouncing ferret’s progress through the air.

“Teaching,” said Moody.

“Teach — Moody,  _ is that a student?” _ shrieked Professor McGonagall, the books spilling out of her arms.

“Yep,” said Moody.

“No!” cried Professor McGonagall, running down the stairs and pulling out her wand; a moment later, with a loud snapping noise, Draco Malfoy had reappeared, lying in a heap on the floor with his sleek blond hair all over his now brilliantly pink face. He got to his feet, wincing.

“Moody, we  _ never _ use Transfiguration as a punishment!” said Professor McGonagall firmly. “Surely Professor Dumbledore told you that?”

“He might’ve mentioned it, yeah,” said Moody, scratching his chin unconcernedly, “but I thought a good sharp shock —”

“We give detentions, Moody! Or speak to the offender’s Head of House!”

“I’ll do that, then,” said Moody, staring at Malfoy with great dislike.

Malfoy, whose pale eyes were still watering with pain and humiliation, looked malevolently up at Moody and muttered something in which the words “my father” were distinguishable.

“Oh yeah?” said Moody quietly, limping forward a few steps, the dull  _ clunk _ of his wooden leg echoing around the hall. “Well, I know your father of old, boy . . . You tell him Moody’s keeping a close eye on his son . . . you tell him that from me . . . Now, your Head of House’ll be Snape, will it?”

“Yes,” said Malfoy resentfully.

“Another old friend,” growled Moody. “I’ve been looking forward to a chat with old Snape . . . Come on, you . . .”

And he seized Malfoy’s upper arm and marched him off toward the dungeons.

Professor McGonagall stared anxiously after them for a few moments, then waved her wand at her fallen books, causing them to soar up into the air and back into her arms.

“That was brilliant,” Tracey said as they sat down at the Slytherin table a few minutes later, surrounded by excited talk on all sides about what had just happened. “Draco Malfoy, the amazing bouncing ferret . . .”

Violet, whose hands were shaking, tried very hard to take a sip of pumpkin juice without spilling it all over herself.

“Yeah . . .” she muttered. “Brilliant . . .”

“Are you alright? Malfoy’s spell missed you, didn’t it?” said Tracey, leaning in with concern in her eyes.

“I’m fine,” said Violet quickly. “He didn’t get me.”

“You don’t  _ look _ fine,” said Cassius, watching her from across the table. “You’re trembling, Violet.”

“It’s nothing,” Violet said, flushing. Then, “What did Moody mean that Snape was another old friend? Did they used to work together?”

Cassius snorted. “I doubt it. It didn’t sound like Moody thinks very highly of him, did it?”

“I’m more interested to hear how he knows Malfoy’s father,” said Tracey conspiratorially. “I mean, all I’ve ever heard about the Malfoys is how rotten they are . . . Moody talked like he knew about all that first hand.”

“The Malfoys  _ are _ rotten,” Cass said. “It’s about time at least one of them faced some consequences for their actions.”

“He didn’t deserve that,” Violet said quietly. Both Cass and Tracey stared at her.

“What are you talking about?” Cassius said in disbelief. “He tried to hex you when your back was turned!”

“And I could have handled it and gotten him back,” said Violet, “or Harry would have taken care of it. Moody shouldn’t have Transfigured him like that.”

“I’d have thought you’d love that,” said Tracey, surprised. “You  _ hate _ Malfoy, Vi.”

“Yeah, I do. I just don’t think it’s funny when someone can’t fight back.”

An uncomfortable silence fell between the three of them. Violet shoved a forkful of roast beef into her mouth and glanced up to the High Table. Moody was noticeably absent, as was Professor Snape. Professor McGonagall was just slipping into her seat, her face more pinched than usual.

Violet didn’t have Defense Against the Dark Arts class until Thursday. She was  _ not _ looking forward to it.


	10. The Unforgivable Curses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

The next two days passed without great incident, unless you counted Neville Longbottom melting his sixth cauldron. Professor Snape, who seemed to have attained new levels of vindictiveness over the summer, gave Neville detention, and issued a series of dire threats to the rest of the class, should anyone be foolish enough to follow in Neville’s footsteps.

Professor Snape didn’t say a word to Violet until the very end of the lesson. She had almost made it to the door, breath held, when he called her back.

“Due to this years festivities, my time outside of class will be even more of a commodity than usual,” he said, narrowing his eyes at the contents of a sample vial as he held it up to the light. “As such, your lessons will lack a specific schedule. I’ll send word when I have time for you, Miss Potter.”

Part of Violet wanted to tell Snape not to bother. She didn’t  _ want _ any of his time, not after what he’d done to Professor Lupin the year before — not after what he’d  _ tried _ to do to Sirius. All summer she’d been running through the things she wanted to say to her Head of House, and yet, now that she was face to face with him all of Violet’s courage had evaporated. In her righteous anger she had somehow forgotten just how intimidating Professor Snape could be.

So instead of telling him off like she’d planned, Violet squeaked out “Thank you, sir,” and hurried off to Herbology with a hard lump of guilt in her stomach.

Fortunately, Violet didn’t have to worry about running into Professor Snape at all the next day — he was absent from school, having been called to testify with Professor Dumbledore at Sirius Black’s trial.

Violet and Harry watched the skies anxiously as the morning post arrived on Thursday, looking out for any sign of Hedwig carrying word from Sirius himself, but there was no sign of the snowy white owl among the flutter of grey and brown. When a copy of the  _ Daily Prophet _ was finally borrowed, all it said on the subject of the trial was that it was “ongoing.” This did nothing to ease Violet’s nerves. Last time she and Harry had heard from Sirius, he’d spoken of the trial like it was nothing more than a formality being put on so the Ministry didn’t look completely incompetent by pardoning him outright. But even if they  _ were _ giving a serious trial, Sirius was an innocent man. Surely the Ministry would see that and let him go.

Unless, of course, Snape spoke up and tried to discredit him. At the end of last year, it hadn’t seemed to matter a whit to him that Sirius was innocent and had been wrongfully imprisoned for over a decade. His hatred for Sirius — which was at least as strong as Sirius’ hatred for  _ him _ — had been so blinding that he’d refused to believe the truth about Scabbers until Pettigrew was forced to transform right before his eyes. And even then, speaking with Professor Dumbledore, Snape had seemed more than happy to let Sirius be taken back to Azkaban.

Violet very badly wanted to believe that his testimony would help to set Sirius free. Snape was  _ there, _ he saw and heard everything that she had. If he told the truth, then the Ministry would have no choice but to let Sirius go. And she wanted, a little desperately, for Professor Snape to do the right thing. Violet had spent too many years looking up to the man and defending him against her brother’s ire. It would be a terrible disappointment if it turned out that Harry was right about him all along.

But Violet wasn’t the only one feeling stressed and uncertain that morning.

There was a palpable tension in the air as the Slytherin fourth years queued up outside of Moody’s classroom on Thursday morning. Malfoy was looking particularly on edge; no small wonder, considering his last encounter with Professor Moody.

When the bell rang, the back rows filled up quickly, with Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle sitting as far from Moody’s desk as possible. In order to sit together, Violet and Tracey were forced to take the two seats right in front of it. They took out their copies of  _ The Dark Forces: A Guide To Self-Protection, _ and waited, unusually quiet. Soon they heard Moody’s distinctive clunking footsteps coming down the corridor, and he entered the room, looking as strange and frightening as ever. They could just see his clawed, wooden foot protruding underneath his robes.

“You can put those away,” he growled, stumping over to his desk and sitting down, “Those books. You won’t need them.”

They returned the books to their bags, Tracey looking excited.

Moody took out a register, shook his long mane of grizzled hair out of his twisted and scarred face, and began to call out names, his normal eye moving steadily down the list while his magical eye swiveled around, fixing upon each student as they answered. His gaze lingered pointedly on certain students; Malfoy got the longest glare, but Theodore Nott and Suzanna Runcorn seemed to hold his attention as well, as though he were trying to memorize their faces.

“Right then,” he said, when the last person had declared themselves present. “I’ve had a few words with Professor Lupin about this class. Seems you have a pretty thorough grounding in tackling Dark Creatures — you’ve covered boggarts, Red Caps, hinkypunks, grindylows, Kappas, and werewolves, is that right?”

There was a general murmur of assent.

“But you’re behind — very behind — on dealing with curses,” said Moody. “So I’m here to bring you up to scratch on what wizards can do to each other. I’ve got one year to teach how to deal with Dark —”

“What, you aren’t staying?” Tracey blurted out.

Moody’s magical eye spun around to stare at Tracey; Tracey looked extremely apprehensive, but after a moment, Moody smiled — the first time Violet had seen him do so. The effect was to make his heavily scarred face look more twisted and contorted than ever, but it was the nevertheless good to know that he ever did anything as friendly as smile. Tracey looked deeply relieved.

“Davis, was it?” Moody said. “Yeah, I’m staying just the one year. Special favour to Dumbledore . . . One year, and then back to my quiet retirement.”

He gave a harsh laugh, and then clapped his gnarled hands together.

“So — straight into it. Curses. They come in many strengths and forms. Now, according to the Ministry of Magic, I’m supposed to teach you countercurses and leave it at that. I’m not supposed to show you what illegal Dark curses look like until you’re in the sixth year. You’re not supposed to be old enough to deal with it till then. But Professor Dumbledore’s got a higher opinion of your nerves, and I say, the sooner you know what you’re up against, the better. How are you supposed to defend yourself against something you’ve never seen? A wizard who’s about to put an illegal curse on you isn’t going to tell you what he’s about to do. He’s not going to do it nice and polite to your face — though some of you might be familiar with that tactic.”

Moody’s magical eye swiveled in Violet’s direction, and then toward the back of the room, where Malfoy sat. An uncomfortable beat of silence hung in the air.

“So . . . do any of you know which curses are most heavily punished by wizarding law?”

Several hands rose tentatively into the air. Violet raised hers a few inches off her desk. Moody pointed at Blaise Zabini, though his eye was still fixed at the back of the room.

“There’s the Imperius Curse,” Blaise said quietly.

“Ah, yes,” said Moody appreciatively. “Good old Imperius Curse . . . Gave the Ministry a lot of trouble at one time.”

Moody got heavily to his mismatched feet, opened his desk drawer, and took out a glass jar. Three large black spiders were scuttling around inside it. Violet felt Tracey recoil slightly next to her — Tracey hated spiders.

Moody reached into the jar, caught one of the spiders, and held it in the palm of his hand so that they could all see it. He then pointed his want at it and muttered,  _ “Imperio!” _

The spider leapt from Moody’s hand on a fine thread of silk and began to swing backward and forward as though on a trapeze. It stretched out its legs rigidly, then did a backflip, breaking the thread and landing on the desk, where it began to cartwheel in circles. Moody jerked her wand, and the spider rose onto two of its hind legs and went into what was unmistakable a tap dance.

A few people were laughing. Moody was not.

“Think it’s funny, do you?” he growled. “You’d like it, would you, if I did it to you?”

The laughter died away almost instantly.

“Total control,” said Moody quietly as the spider balled itself up and began to roll over and over. “I could make it jump out of the window, drown itself, throw itself down one of your throats . . .”

Tracey shuddered. The hairs were standing up on the back of Violet’s neck.

“Years back, there were a lot of witches and wizards being controlled by the Imperius Curse,” said Moody, and Violet knew he was talking about the days in which Voldemort had been all-powerful. “Some job for the Ministry, trying to sort out who was being forced to act, and who was acting of their own free will.”

Both of Moody’s eyes now settled on Malfoy, who had been watching the spider with undisguised fascination. Everyone in the room knew about the Malfoy’s involvement with Voldemort — and knew that they had denied being in control of their actions at the time, which allowed them to walk free rather than spending the rest of their days in a cell in Azkaban. Malfoy’s eyes left the spider and locked with Moody’s, which were still watching him. His pale face went a blotchy sort of pink.

“The Imperius Curse can be fought,” Moody said, looking back to the spider, “and I’ll be teaching you how, but it takes real strength of character, and not everyone’s got it. Better avoid being hit with it if you can. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he barked, and everyone jumped.

Moody picked up the somersaulting spider and threw it back into the jar.

“Anyone else know one? Another illegal curse?”

To Violet’s immense surprise, both Crabbe and Goyle raised their hands. She’d never seen either of them do this before.

“Yes?” said Moody, pointing at Crabbe.

“Cruciatus Curse,” Crabbe grunted firmly.

Moody was looking very intently at Crabbe, again with both of his eyes. After a moment, he turned his back to the class, reached into the jar for the next spider and placed it upon the desktop, where it remained motionless, apparently too scared to move.

“The Cruciatus Curse,” said Moody. “Needs to be a bit bigger for you to get the idea,” he said, pointing his wand at the spider.  _ “Engorgio!” _

The spider swelled. It was now larger than a tarantula. Tracey let out an audible squeak and pushed her chair back away from Moody’s desk.

Moody raised his wand again, pointed at the spider, and muttered,  _ “Crucio!” _

At once, the spider’s legs bent in upon its body; it rolled over and began to twitch horrible, rocking from side to side. No sound came from it, but Violet was sure that if it could have given voice, it would have been screaming. Moody did not remove his wand, and the spider started to shudder and jerk more violently. It was thrashing now, it’s eight legs twitching and flailing uncontrollably on top of Moody’s desk. The room was completely silent. Violet couldn’t make herself look away, no matter how badly she wanted to.

At last, after what felt like ages, Moody relented. His raised his wand. The spider’s legs relaxed, but it continued to twitch.

_ “Reducio,” _ Moody muttered, and the spider shrank back to its proper size. He put it back into the jar.

“Pain,” said Moody softly. “You don’t need thumbscrews or knives to torture someone if you can perform the Cruciatus Curse . . . That one was very popular once too.

“Right . . . anyone know any others?”

Violet looked around. From the looks on everyone’s faces, she guessed they were all wondering what was going to happen to the last spider. Draco Malfoy lifted his hand high into the air.

Moody pointed to him and Malfoy said, coolly,  _ “Avada Kedavra.” _

Several people looked uneasily around at him.

“Ah,” said Moody, another slight smile twisting his lopsided mouth, though there was no light in his eyes as he looked at Malfoy. “Yes, the last and worst.  _ Avada Kedavra . . . _ the Killing Curse.”

He put his hand into the glass jar, and almost as though it knew what was coming, the third spider scuttled frantically around the bottom of the jar, trying to evade Moody’s fingers, but he trapped it, and placed it upon the desktop. It started to scuttle frantically across the wooden surface.

Moody raised his wand, and Violet felt a sudden thrill of foreboding.

_ “Avada Kedavra!” _ Moody roared.

There was a flash of blinding green light and a rushing sound, as though a vast, invisible something was soaring through the air — instantaneously the spider rolled over onto its back, unmarked, but unmistakably dead. Several of the students stifled cries; Tracey hands flew up to cover her mouth as the spider skidded toward them.

Moody swept the dead spider off the desk onto the floor.

“Not nice,” he said calmly. “Not pleasant. And there’s no countercurse. There’s no blocking it. Only one known person has ever survived it, and his sister’s sitting right in front of me.”

Violet felt her face redden as Moody’s eyes (both of them) looked into her own. She could feel everyone else looking around at her too. Violet stared down at the wooden surface of her desk, willing herself to breath in and out.

So that was that her parents had died . . . exactly like that spider. Had they been unblemished and unmarked too? Had they simply seen the flash of green — the same flash that had haunted Violet’s nightmares for as long as she could remember — and heard the rush of speeding death, before life was wiped from their bodies?

Violet had been picturing her parents’ deaths over and over again for three years now, ever since she and Harry had found out they had been murdered, ever since she’d found out what had happened that night: Pettigrew had betrayed her parents’ whereabouts to Voldemort, who had come to find them at their cottage. How Voldemort had killed their father first. How James Potter had tried to hold him off, while he shouted at his wife to take Harry and Violet and run . . . Voldemort had advanced on Lily Potter, told her to move aside so that he could kill Harry . . . how she’d begged him to kill her instead, refused to stop shielding her children . . . and so Voldemort had murdered her too, before turning his wand on Harry . . .

Violet knew these details because she and Harry had heard their parents’ voices when they had fought the dementors last year — for that was the terrible power of the dementors: to force their victims to relive the worst memories of their lives, and drown, powerless, in their own despair . . .

A droplet of water splashed onto the surface of the desk, breaking her concentration, and Violet realized that she was crying. With a massive effort, she pulled herself back to the present and wiped her face with the sleeve of her robes. Moody was speaking again, from a great distance it seemed, and she struggled to listen to what he was saying.

“The Killing Curse is one that needs a powerful bit of magic behind it — you could get all your wands out now and point them at me and say the words, and I doubt I’d get so much as a nosebleed. But that doesn’t matter. I’m not here to teach you how to do it.

“Now, if there’s no known countercurse, why I am showing you?  _ Because you’ve got to know. _ You’ve got to appreciate what the worst it. You don’t want to find yourself in a situation where you’re facing it. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” he roared, and the whole class jumped again.

“Now . . . those three curses — The Killing Curse, Imperius, and Cruciatus — are known as the Unforgivable Curses. The use of any of them on a fellow human being is enough to earn a life sentence in Azkaban. That’s what you’re up against. That’s what I’ve got to teach you to fight. You need preparing. You need arming. But most of all, you need to practice  _ constant, never-ceasing vigilance. _ Get out your quills . . . copy this down . . .”

They spent the rest of the lesson taking notes on each of the Unforgivable Curses. No one spoke until the bell rang — but when Moody had dismissed them and they had left the classroom, a torrent of talk burst forth. Most people were discussing the curses in awed voices — “Did you see it twitch?” “— and when he killed it — just like that!”

They were talking about the lesson, Violet thought, as thought it had been some sort of spectacular show, but she hadn’t found it very entertaining. 

“That was horrifying,” said Tracey to Violet as they set off toward the Great Hall. “I’ve never seen anything like that. I didn’t even know magic could  _ do _ that! When he killed the spider, the way it just  _ died _ , snuffed right out like —”

But Tracey fell suddenly silent at the look on Violet’s face and didn’t speak again until they reached the Great Hall, when she greeted Cassius.

“What’s the matter with you?” Cass asked Violet, slumping heavily into the seat across from her.

“We’ve just had Moody’s class,” Tracey answered, which Violet was grateful for; she didn’t quite feel like speaking just yet. “He showed us all these  _ horrible _ curses . . . Said we need to be prepared for what’s out there.”

“What, he did the whole Unforgivable show?” Cass said, sounding appalled. “To  _ you? _ But you’re fourth years! You aren’t meant to be taught about that sort of thing yet!”

“He said Dumbledore thought we could handle it,” Tracey shrugged. 

Cassius pointed at Violet. “Does she look like she’s handling it to you?”

“I’m fine,” Violet said quickly. “Sorry, I was just — er —”

Violet’s voice faltered. She couldn’t even come up with an excuse, not that she needed to. Both Cass and Tracey were now looking at her in concern.

“You’ve been crying again, Vi,” said Cass softly. “I can see it on your face.”

“I  _ always _ cry,” Violet grumbled. She scrubbed at her eyes again for good measure.

“So you’ve seen all the curses then, too?” Tracey asked Cassius, leaning across the table. “What did you think? And what did you think of Moody as well?”

Cass’s expression shifted from concern to discomfort. “It was disgusting, that’s what I thought of it,” he said gruffly. “Not to mention how funny some of the lads in my year found it all . . . Bole about fell out of his chair laughing at the Imperius Curse. And of course he’s too bloody stupid to see the way Moody was looking at him. When he looked at me like that during roll call, I thought I might be sick.”

“Why would Moody give you a dirty look during roll call?” Tracey asked. Violet, eyes still stinging slightly, thought she might have see a furtive sort of blush appear on Cassius’ cheeks.

“Dunno,” he said. “Maybe he just didn’t like my face.”

Cass snagged a Yorkshire Pudding from their golden platter and stuffed it into his mouth.

“Go’a g’,” he grunted around his morsel, and then in a flash he was gone, hurrying out of the Great Hall with his pack slung over his shoulder. Tracey stared after him with a frown on her face.

“Do you ever get the feeling he’s hiding something?” she said suspiciously, “or is it just me?”

 

The rest of the day crawled by for Violet. History of Magic was as interesting as it ever was, which was to say not very. Any fascination Violet might have had for the subject of Goblin Wars was stripped away by the droning, monotonous voice of Professor Binns. By the time they were let out and dinner rolled around, Violet was on the verge of falling asleep in on her plate.

Coming out of the Great Hall on her way back to the Slytherin common room, Violet was stopped by none other that Professor Lupin, looking unusually energetic.

“Glad I caught you, Violet,” Lupin said, ushering her aside from the flow of students streaming from the hall. “I’ve just been to see Professor Dumbledore — he’d like to have a word with you and Harry before you head off to bed.”

“Are we in trouble?” Violet asked at once, a sinking feeling in her heart. “Did Harry do something already?”

Lupin laughed, a genuine sound that woke Violet up a bit more. She couldn’t remember ever seeing him this cheerful.

“Neither of you is being punished, I’ll leave it at that,” he said evasively. “Ah, here comes Harry now . . . Harry! Over here, please!”

Harry looked around for the source of his name and brightened at once when he caught sight of Professor Lupin. He turned and spoke to Ron and Hermione, and for a moment Violet feared they meant to come with him — but the two of them merely waved and headed off up the marble staircase while Harry fought his way over to where Violet and Lupin stood.

“Hey, Vi,” he said. “Hello, sir.”

“Hello, Harry,” said Lupin brightly. “Would you come with me, please?”

Sharing looks of bewilderment, the twins had little choice but to follow as Professor Lupin led them up the grand staircase toward Dumbledore’s office.

“Are we in trouble?” Harry whispered to Violet, once he realized where they were headed. Violet shook her head.

“He said Dumbledore wants to talk to us,” Violet whispered back.

She jumped when Professor Lupin said, “You really  _ aren’t _ in trouble — I promise.”

“Then what’s going on?” Harry asked boldly. “Is something the matter?”

Professor Lupin shot them a smile over his shoulder.

“You’ll see.”

Anxiety and suspicion had well taken root in Violet’s stomach by the time they reached the great oaken doors that led into Professor Dumbledore’s office. Lupin raised a fist and rapped smartly, and a voice from within called for them to enter. Giving the twins one final, mischievous smile, Professor Lupin pushed open the doors and led them inside.

Dumbledore’s office looked much the same as it had the previous times that Violet had had occasion to visit it. The portraits of headmasters past stared down at her from the walls above, while the floor was filled with little tables with strange little silver instruments ticking and whirring away on them. Behind his massive claw-footed desk sat Professor Dumbledore himself, smiling beneath his drooping silver moustache.

And there in the middle of the room stood Sirius Black.

“Sirius,” Violet heard her brother breathe as the pair of them stood there in shock.  _ “Sirius!” _

Harry ran forward, arms outstretched, and was swept into a hug by his godfather. Sirius was laughing, a warm, rich sound that was so unlike the hollow barks that he’d let out the last time they had seen him, dressed in filthy rags in the Shrieking Shack. His face, still thin but no longer a skull-like mask, was alight with a radiant smile. He looked, more than he ever had before, like the best man standing in their parents’ wedding photograph, beaming into the camera next to their father.

“What are you doing here?” Harry demanded, staggering back in shock when he and Sirius finally broke apart. “The Ministry — the trial —”

“It’s all over,” Sirius said, grinning. “The hearing ended an hour ago, they haven’t even released a statement yet — but it’s all over now. I’m a free man, Harry.”

"But what about Snape? Didn't he lie to try and keep you in prison?"

Sirius threw his head back at laughed. "Oh, I could tell that he wanted to, the slimy bastard — but not even he's foolish enough to try and lie with Albus sitting bloody there, much less the entire Wizengamot. Had his teeth clenched the whole time, but he came through."

Over Harry’s shoulder, Sirius caught sight of Violet standing there and gaping at him. He held out his arms once more.

“Hello, Violet,” he said. And in a flash, Violet had crossed the room and wrapped her arms around him as well. He was very thin beneath his robes, thinner than Lupin even, but his arms were strong and his hug was warm. The wiry bristles of his beard scratched against the side of Violet’s head, the way Hagrid’s did when he bent down to hug her properly. It was a very comforting feeling, and Violet at once began to cry.

“I’m sorry —” Sirius said, releasing her at once in alarm. “Sorry, did I squeeze too hard? Are you alright?”

“It’s fine,” Violet hiccoughed, immediately wiping her cheeks to try and stem the flow of tears. “I just — I cry a lot, sorry —”

Still looking worried, Sirius patted her gently on the shoulder. “So long as you’re okay . . .” he said. He turned back to Harry. “And how are you holding up, Harry? How’ve you been sleeping?”

At once, Harry looked bashful. He glanced nervously between Professor Dumbledore and Sirius’ pointed stare and said, “Er, fine, thanks.”

Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat and rose to his feet.

“I think perhaps the four of you deserve a moment of privacy,” said Dumbledore, eyes twinkling in a way that was far too knowing for Violet’s liking as he came around his desk. With a casual flick of his wand, four cushy looking armchairs appeared out of thin air. “Pardon me, children. Please, take as much time as you need in my office. I have little use for it.”

Both Lupin and Sirius laughed, but the twins shifted uncomfortably. Professor Dumbledore disappeared through a side door with a little backwards wave, and then the godchildren were alone with their godparents. Sirius turned back to Harry, and the genial smile vanished from his face.

“Alright,” he said, settling into the nearest armchair, “tell me more about this pain in your scar.”

“It was nothing,” Harry said, face reddening. “I mean, it was just a dream.”

“A dream?” Sirius repeated. “Do your dreams always make your scar hurt?” 

His eyes flicked to Harry’s forehead, and Harry immediately reached up to adjust his hair.

“No,” Harry muttered. “But it was only the one dream . . . and my scar hasn’t bothered me since, honest.”

“What do you remember about the dream?” Professor Lupin asked, lowering himself into an armchair as well and gesturing for Harry and Violet to do the same. Violet did so at once, but Harry looked reluctant.

“Not much,” he said slowly. “There was an . . . an old man, but I didn’t recognize him. And someone else . . . I think it — it was . . .”

“It was Pettigrew,” Violet said quietly. Both Lupin and Sirius turned to her very quickly.

“Peter?” Lupin said sharply. “Harry — did you dream about Peter?”

Harry shifted awkwardly in his chair. “I s’pose,” he muttered. “Violet remembers it better than I do.”

“Harry told you about this dream as well?” Sirius said to Violet.

“We talked about it, yeah, after we woke up,” she answered. “I didn’t know the old man either, but it was definitely Pettigrew’s voice talking.”

“How could you know that?” Lupin said, looking confused. “It’s not that I doubt your memory, Violet, only you seem to remember Harry’s dream better than Harry himself.”

“I usually do remember them when I wake up,” Violet explained. “I mean, I dreamed it too, so I suppose things just stick in my head more clearly.”

Sirius and Lupin exchanged a significant look.

“Violet,” Sirius said, wetting his lips, “do you mean that you and Harry had the  _ same _ dream?”

“Er —” Violet looked to her brother, suddenly nervous, “yes?”

“We always dream together,” Harry added quickly. “Ever since we can remember. Is that —” He looked between Sirius and Professor Lupin. “Is that not normal?”

From the long, stunned sort of look that the two men shared between them, Violet could tell right away that it was absolutely  _ not _ normal. Something that she and Harry had shared and held between them all their lives, and never thought anything of, was apparently so out of the ordinary that even two grown wizards were taken aback by it.

“Is it bad?” Violet asked, her voice high with nerves. Lupin and Sirius finally broke their silent stare and looked to her. Lupin even smiled.

“I admit, I’ve never heard of anything like it,” he said, carefully, “but then again I haven’t known many sets of twins in my life. It’s certainly, er,  _ interesting, _ but I don’t think that there’s anything bad about it.”

“Harry said the dream made his scar hurt,” said Sirius suddenly, “but how did it affect you, Violet? Did you feel any pain at all? A headache?”

Violet shook her head.

“No . . . I’ve never felt anything like that. Harry’s the only one who gets twinges.”

Both men rounded on Harry once more.

“You told me in your letter that your scar only hurt you when Voldemort was nearby,” Sirius said. “Harry, is there anything else you can remember about your dream? You said Wormtail was there — What about the old man? Are you certain you didn’t know him? What did he look like? Perhaps if you saw him again you’d be able to —”

“It was just a dream!” Harry burst out, now fully red in the face. “No, I didn’t know the old man — but what does it matter? It was just a dream I had, months ago.”

“I know it may not seem important, but if there’s anything else, Harry —”

“Why does it matter what I dreamt?” Harry shouted. “I could’ve dreamed about flying over a rainbow made of candy floss and it wouldn’t have made any more sense. Why are you both taking this so seriously?”

Lupin and Sirius looked at each other again. Lupin shook his head slightly, and Sirius turned back to Harry.

“Albus doesn’t want me to tell you this,” he said quietly, laying a firm hand on Harry’s shoulder, “but I think you have a right to know about what’s going on. Things are happening again, Harry, strange rumours have reached me —”

“Sirius, for heaven’s sake,” Lupin started, but Sirius kept right on.

“— bringing Mad-Eye out of retirement is no random whim, Dumbledore is reading the signs, even if no one else is —”

“Sirius!” Lupin barked. Sirius let go of Harry and sat up, looking cross.

_ “What,  _ Remus? The boy’s got a right to know —”

“Maybe so,” Lupin snapped, “but not tonight. Not . . . not right now, Sirius. It’s late. Harry and Violet must be very tired —”

“We’re not,” Violet said at once, but Lupin ignored her.

“I happen to know they’ve been given a lot of homework this week, and I imagine they’ve still quite a lot of it to get done. Children, please, let’s head back to your dorms.”

“But we’re really not tired!” Harry protested as Professor Lupin got to his feet. “We want to know what’s going on! Sirius — what rumours — what signs — ?”

But Sirius had risen to his feet as well, looking slightly abashed. He flashed the twins a tense smile and said, “Moony’s right, as usual, I’m afraid. You two should be off to bed at this hour.”

“But —” Harry looked crestfallen. “But you’ve only just gotten here . . .”

“I’m not leaving just yet,” said Sirius gently. “I’ve still got to have a few words with Dumbledore about where I’m going to be staying . . . Don’t worry, Harry. We’ll see each other again soon.”

There was a series of awkward, slightly resentful hugs, and then Harry and Violet found themselves ushered out of Professor Dumbledore’s office and left to head back to their respective common rooms, alone. They descended the rotating staircase together in silence, both tense and full to bursting with questions that neither of them quite had the proper grasp on to put into words.

Things were going on. Things were being kept from them. Dumbledore was worried. The way they dreamed wasn’t normal.

This was a lot to take in at once. The pair of them were so distracted that they didn’t even say goodnight to each other before wandering apart. Harry went up, climbing toward Gryffindor tower, while Violet slouched down into the dungeons and straight into her waiting bed without a second thought. Her head was swimming, and yet she fell asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.


	11. Beauxbatons & Durmstrang

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

The next morning, word of Sirius Black’s acquittal was all over the front page of the  _ Daily Prophet _ and it was the only thing people were talking about in the halls. Not even a year earlier, Black had broken into the school — twice — and attempted to break into Gryffindor Tower with the goal of, so it was believed, killing Harry. The finer details — such as Scabbers the rat’s identity and Crookshanks involvement — were kept from the public, but the blame for Sirius’s former crimes had been shifted to their rightful perpetrator; a nervous, watery-eyed photograph of a much younger Peter Pettigrew stared back at Violet from the newspaper, looking just as desperate and rat-like as he had the night he’d been revealed to her and Harry. And, she recalled with a shudder, in their shared dream.

Another fact obscured from the public was the fact that Sirius Black was Harry’s godfather. Unfortunately, there were already certain people who knew this truth, and had a lot of questions about it.

“Are you going to go and live with him?” Ron had demanded of Harry, eyes wide as he brandished a copy of the  _ Prophet. _ “D’you think I’ll be able to come and visit  _ you _ for a change?”

“I don’t know,” Harry answered truthfully. “We didn’t get a chance to talk about it . . .”

Harry had, of course, told Ron and Hermione everything about their brief meeting with Sirius in Dumbledore’s office, including the details of his and Violet’s dreaming habits. Violet had told Cass and Tracey about the meeting as well, though held back on the specifics, as usual. She’d already had this conversation with them the previous night; while it would be wonderful to go and live with Sirius — to live with  _ anyone _ besides Aunt Petunia and Dudley — they had no idea if they would actually be allowed to  _ do _ that.

Violet did her best not to dwell on the idea over the next couple of weeks. True, she would sometimes catch herself fantasizing about being allowed to sleep in, in her own bed, maybe even in her own  _ room, _ and waking up knowing that she was in a home full of people who loved her, but these visions were quickly shaken off. It didn’t do to dwell on uncertainties. Especially not when reality, meaning their lessons, were becoming more difficult and demanding than ever before, particularly Moody’s Defense Against the Dark Arts.

To their surprise, Professor Moody had announced that he would be putting the Imperius Curse on each of them in turn, to demonstrate its power and to see whether they could resist its effects.

“Didn’t you say this is illegal, sir?” asked Blaise Zabini uncertainly as Moody cleared away the desks with a sweep of his wand, leaving a large clear space in the middle of the room. “You told us that to use it on another person was —”

“Dumbledore wants you taught what it feels like,” his magical eye swiveling to Blaise and fixing him with an eerie, unblinking stare. “If you’d rather learn the hard way — when someone’s putting it on you so they can control you completely — fine by my. You’re excused. Off you go.”

He pointed one gnarled finger toward the door. Blaise’s narrow eyes narrowed even further, but he stayed put. No one else moved to leave, either.

Moody began to beckon students forward in turn and put the Imperius Curse upon them. Violet watched as, one by one, her classmates did the most extraordinary things under its influence. Theodore Nott hopped three times around the room, singing the national anthem. Pansy Parkinson imitated a squirrel. Goyle performed a series of quite astonishing gymnastics he would certainly not have been capable of in his normal state. Not one of them seemed to be able to fight off the curse, and each of them recovered only when Moody had removed it.

“Potter,” Moody growled, “you next.”

This was the moment that Violet had been dreading. To have her mind taken from her . . . to be under another person’s complete control sounded like a waking nightmare of the highest degree. Feeling sick, Violet moved forward into the middle of the classroom, into the space that Moody had cleared of desks. Moody raised his wand, pointed it at Violet, and said,  _ “Imperio!” _

It was such an unexpectedly pleasant sensation that Violet quite forgot how afraid she was. She was floating, as every thought and worry in her head was wiped gently away, leaving nothing but a vague, untraceable happiness. She stood there, suddenly relaxed, only dimly aware of everyone watching her.

And then she heard Mad-Eye Moody’s voice, echoing in some distant chamber of her empty brain:  _ Do a pirouette . . . do a pirouette . . . _

Violet’s arms began to lift from her sides, raising out in front of her.

_ Do a pirouette . . . _

But the foreign voice in her mind had woken another in the back of her brain.

I don’t want to, said the new voice.

_ Do a pirouette . . . _

I don’t want to do that, said the other voice, rather firmly. . . I’m not going to . . .

_ Spin! NOW! _

The muscles in Violet’s right leg spasmed, and she raised onto her tiptoes — and then rocked back onto her heels and lost her balance. She wheeled backward until she collided with the desk behind her.

“Now,  _ that’s _ more like it!” growled Moody’s voice, and suddenly Violet felt the empty, echoing feeling in her head disappear. She remembered exactly what was happening, and the sickness returned full force.

“Look at that, you lot . . . Potter fought! She fought it, and she damn near beat it! We’ll try that again, Potter, and the rest of you, pay attention — watch her eyes, that’s where you see it — very good, Miss Potter, very good indeed! They’ll have trouble controlling  _ you!” _

 

“The way he talks,” Tracey muttered as they wandered out of the Defense Against the Dark Arts class an hour later (Moody had insisted on putting Violet through her paces another three times in a row, until Violet could throw off the curse entirely), “you would think we’re all about to be attacked any second.”

“I know,” said Violet, who was walking very stiffly. Her legs ached from all the near-dancing Moody had almost forced her to do, and her jaw felt permanently clenched. “And it makes me even more worried that Professor Dumbledore is  _ allowing _ all this, like he thinks we need to be ready for it, too, you know?”

“That is worrying,” Tracey said. She was still skipping on every alternate step. She’d had much more difficult with the curse than Violet, though Moody assured her the effects would wear off by lunchtime. “And I can’t  _ believe _ he gave us even more reading to do, after all that! When are we meant to have time for it?”

All the fourth years had noticed a definite increase in the amount of work they were required to do this term. Professor McGonagall explained why, when the class gave a particularly loud groan at the amount of transfiguration homework she had assigned.

“You are now entering a most important phase of your magical education!” she told them, her eyes glinting dangerously behind her square spectacles. “Your Ordinary Wizarding Levels are drawing closer —”

“But we don’t take O.W.L.s till fifth year!” said Pansy indignantly.

“Maybe so, Miss Parkinson, but believe me, you need all the preparation you can get! Miss Potter remains the only person in this class who has managed to turn a hedgehog into a satisfactory pincushion. I might remind you that  _ your _ pincushion, Parkinson, still curls up in fright if anyone approaches it with a pin!”

Pansy shot a murderous look at Violet, who was red-faced and trying to sink beneath her desk and away from all the stares being directed at her.

Her mood improved greatly in Professor Lupin’s class; he had invited a real goblin to come and speak to the class and answer any questions they might be brave enough to ask him. It was a very interesting and informative lesson, though the way the goblin’s black eyes glimmered coldly around at them all had sent chills down her spine. 

Meanwhile, Professor Binns, the ghost who taught History of Magic, had them writing weekly essays on the goblin rebellions of the eighteenth century, which was far easier for those who had heard the  _ goblins’ _ version of events. Professor Flitwick had asked them to read three extra books in preparation for their lesson on Summoning Charms.

Professor Snape was forcing them to research antidotes. Everyone took this one seriously, as he had hinted that he might be poisoning one of them before Christmas to see if their antidote worked. Neville was plainly terrified that it was going to him, but most people’s bets were on Harry. Since Sirius’ trial and pardon, Snape had been even more sour and abusive toward Harry than usual. He had also not yet called upon Violet for her first private lesson, as he said he would, and she was beginning to worry that he had changed his mind.

Not that she had the  _ time _ to worry. Even Hagrid was adding to their workload. The Blast-Ended Skrewts were growing at a remarkable pace given that nobody had yet discovered that they ate. Hagrid was delighted, and as part of their “project,” suggested that they come down to his hut on alternate evenings to observe the skrewts and make notes on their extraordinary behavior.

“I will not,” said Draco Malfoy flatly when Hagrid had proposed this with the air of Father Christmas pulling an extra-large toy out of his sack. “I see enough of these foul things during lessons, thanks.”

Hagrid’s smile faded off his face.

“Yeh’ll do as yer told,” he growled, “or I’ll be takin’ a leaf outta Professor Moody’s book . . . I hear yeh make a good ferret, Malfoy.”

Most everybody roared with laughter. Malfoy flushed with anger, but apparently the memory of Moody’s punishment was still sufficiently painful to stop him from retorting. Tracey and Violet returned to the castle at the end of the lesson in mixed spirits; while seeing Hagrid put down Malfoy was particularly satisfying — especially because Malfoy had done his very best to get Hagrid sacked the previous year — Violet still felt uncomfortable with the memory of Malfoy’s helplessness.

When they arrived in the entrance hall, they found themselves unable to proceed owing to the large crowd of students congregated there, all milling around a large sign that had been erected at the foot of the marble staircase. Cassius, the tallest of the three, had no difficulty seeing over the heads in front of them and read the sign aloud to the other two:

 

**THE TRIWIZARD TOURNAMENT**

T _he delegations from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang will be arriving at 6 o’clock on Friday the 30th of October. Lessons will end half an hour early_ _ — _

 

“Brilliant!” said Tracey. “We’ve got Potions last thing on Friday! Snape won’t have time to poison your brother!”

 

_ Students will return their bags and books to their dormitories and assemble in front of the castle to greet out guests before the Welcoming Feast. _

 

“Only a week away!” said Ernie Macmillan of Hufflepuff, emerging from the crowd, his eyes gleaming. “I wonder if Cedric knows? Think I’ll go and tell him . . .”

“Cedric?” said Tracey, perking up as Ernie hurried off. “Cedric Diggory? Do you think he’ll be entering the tournament?”

“That oaf, Hogwarts champion?” said Cass as they pushed their way through the chattering crowd toward the dungeons.

“He’s not an oaf!” Tracey protested. “He’s really good at Quidditch — he even beat Harry one year, remember?  _ And _ he’s a prefect.”

She spoke as though this settled the matter. Cassius rolled his eyes.

“He is too an oaf — I have half my classes with him this year. All he has to do is bat his eyelashes at the teachers and they’re happy to give him the highest marks in the world . . . Besides, you only like him because he’s  _ handsome _ .”

“I don’t  _ like _ him!” Tracey said shrilly, cheeks darkening further. “And — and even if I did, it wouldn’t just be because he’s handsome!”

“Whatever you say . . .” Cassius muttered, smirking. Tracey fumed and ignored him for the rest of the evening.

The appearance of the sign in the entrance hall had a marked effect upon the inhabitants of the castle. During the following week, there seemed to be only one topic of conversation, no matter where Violet went: the Triwizard Tournament. Rumours were flying from student to student like highly contagious germs: who was going to try for Hogwarts champion, what the tournament would involve, how the students from Beauxbatons of Durmstrang differed from themselves.

Violet noticed too that the castle seemed to be undergoing an extra-thorough cleaning. Several grimy portraits had been scrubbed, much to the displeasure of their subjects, who sat huddled in their frames and wincing as they felt their raw pink faces. The suits of armor were suddenly gleaming and moving without squeaking, and Argus Filch, the caretaker, was behaving so ferociously to any students who forgot to wipe their shoes that he terrified a pair of first-year girls into hysterics.

When they went down to breakfast on the morning of the thirtieth of October, they found that the Great Hall had been decorated overnight. Enormous silk banners hung from the walls, each of them representing a Hogwarts House: red with a gold lion for Gryffindor, blue with a bronze eagle for Ravenclaw, yellow with a black badger for Hufflepuff, and green with a silver serpent for Slytherin. Behind the teacher’s table, the largest banner of all bore the Hogwarts coat of arms: lion, eagle, badger, and snake united around a large H.

When Violet joined her friends at the Slytherin table, she noticed a large badge pinned to the front of Tracey’s robes.

“What’s that?” she asked, nodding to it.

“I bought it from Granger!” Tracey said, turning to show the badge’s face to Violet. “She’s selling them for two Sickles!”

“‘Spew’?” Violet read aloud, wrinkling her nose. “Why’s Hermione selling badges that say  _ spew?” _

“It’s supposed to be S-P-E-W,” Tracey said defensively, “for the ‘Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare.’ She told me all about it — Violet, did you know that Hogwarts has  _ hundreds _ of house elves living in it?”

“What?” said Violet, stunned.

“Isn’t it horrible? They do all of the cooking, and all the cleaning in the dorms and common rooms. I had no idea until Hermione told me about it. I’ve never even seen one of them in the school, have you?”

Violet shook her head, “No, I haven’t . . . I just thought it all got done by magic.”

“So did I — but it turns out it’s actually being done by  _ slaves.” _

“Oh, not this again.”

Cassius slid into the seat on Tracey’s other side, looking distastefully at her S.P.E.W. badge. Tracey stuck out her chin defiantly and said, “Yes, Cassius,  _ this again. _ Did you know that Hogwarts is being run on slave labour?”

“No, and I don’t care,” said Cass blithely. “Pass the orange juice, please.”

“How much did you say that badge cost?” Violet asked quickly.

“Two Sickles,” Tracey said through clenched teeth. She rounded on Cass, but Violet left the table before she could really lay into him. Across the hall, Hermione was sitting with Harry and Ron at the Gryffindor table, with Fred and George huddled together nearby. Violet plopped herself unceremoniously between Fred and Hermione.

“I’d like to buy one of your badges, please,” she said brightly. Hermione’s face lit up.

“Really? I mean — of course, hang on, let me just —” She reached into pockets and pulled out two handfuls of brightly coloured buttons, each bearing the letters S-P-E-W written across them in bold black letters. “I have loads of them left, because  _ some _ people don’t know how to make a good sales pitch.”

Hermione looked pointedly at Ron and Harry, who both scowled and shrank away from her accusatory glare.

“Look, we bought your bloody badges, didn’t we?” Ron grumbled. “Just because we don’t go around harassing people about it like you do —”

“It’s called raising support for the cause!” Hermione said hotly, as Violet picked out a bright orange S.P.E.W. badge and pinned it to the front of her robes. “Something the pair of you need to be doing, as members of the Society for the Promotion of Elvish Welfare. Doesn’t it bother you, knowing that there are slaves cooking all of your meals, and making your bed for you every morning?”

Ron now rolled his eyes at the ceiling, which was flooding them all in autumn sunlight, and Harry became extremely interested in his bacon (Violet couldn’t help but notice that neither of them were wearing their badges). George, however, leaned in toward Violet and Hermione.

“Listen, have you ever been down in the kitchens, Hermione?”

“No, of course not,” said Hermione curtly, “I hardly think students are supposed to —”

“Well, we have,” said George, indicating Fred, “loads of times, to nick food. And we’ve met them, and they’re  _ happy. _ They think they’ve got the best job in the world —”

“That’s because they’re uneducated and brainwashed!” Hermione began hotly, but her next few words were drowned out by the sudden whooshing noise from overhead, which announced the arrival of the post owls. Hedwig fluttered down and landed on Harry’s shoulder, a letter attached to her leg. Hermione immediately stopped talking, and joined Ron in reading over Harry’s shoulder.

Violet’s attention, however, was caught by Fred and George muttering to one another, speaking quietly as though they didn’t want to be overheard.

“What are you two up to?” Violet asked, scooting closer to Fred. He put a hand to his chest in mock offense.

“Us? Up to something? I dunno what you’re on about.”

“I, for one, am hurt by your suspicion,” said George, putting on an impressive pout. “Can’t two people simply talk to each other without being involved in nefarious plots?”

“Not  _ you _ two,” Violet teased, and they both grinned. “So — what’s going on?”

“Haven’t you heard?” said Fred. “Blimey, it’s been all over the school —”

“The Triwizard Tournament, that’s what’s going on!” said George.

“Are you planning on trying out to enter it?” Violet asked. “I didn’t think you’d be old enough.”

“We’re not, yet,” George said, his smile dropping. “But we’re working on that. I asked McGonagall how the champions are chosen but she wasn’t telling.”

“And no one’s got a clue what the tasks are going to be,” said Fred thoughtfully. “Sure there’s loads of theories, but they’re all rubbish, as far as we can tell.”

His expression turned sly.

“Bet Warrington would love to know what the tournament has in store.”

“Cass?” said Violet, surprised. “Why should he care?”

“Why wouldn’t he?” said Fred. “I heard he’s got his mind made up about having a go at it. Having a hint or two about the challenges would be a great head start.”

“He hasn’t said anything to me about trying out,” Violet frowned. 

Fred shrugged and said, “He hasn’t said anything to me, either, not that he would — but word gets around for us upperclassmen. Angelina’s trying out as well, for sure.”

“Interesting,” said Violet, though she wasn’t really paying attention any longer. “Thanks for telling me, Fred,” she muttered, rising to her feet. “Good luck on the mischief, you two . . .”

She rejoined her friends at the Slytherin table, though her plans for badgering Cassius about his entering the Triwizard Tournament were shelved for the moment. Whatever had passed between him and Tracey while Violet was gone had left them both silently fuming, not speaking to her or each other.

Other than that, there was a pleasant feeling of anticipation in the air that day. Nobody was attentive in lessons, being more interested in the arrival that evening of the people from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang; as Potions was half an hour shorter than usual, Violet didn’t get a change to ask Professor Snape about the start of her private lessons. When the bell rang early, all the Slytherins hurried down the hall to their common room, deposited their bags and books as they had been instructed, pulled on their cloaks, and rushed back downstairs into the entrance hall.

The Heads of Houses were ordering their students into lines.

“Malfoy, straighten your hat,” Professor Snape snapped at Draco. “Potter, Davis, take those ridiculous badges off.”

“But sir,” Tracey protested, “they’re for —”

“Take. Them. Off.”

There was no arguing with Snape’s tone. Sullenly, Violet and Tracey removed their S.P.E.W. badges and tucked them into their pockets.

“Follow me,” Professor Snape ordered. “First years in front. Anyone seen pushing will be in detention from now until Christmas.”

They filed down the steps and lined up in front of the castle. It was a cold, clear evening; dusk was falling and a pale, transparent-looking full moon was already shining over the Forbidden Forest. Professor Lupin was conspicuously absent from the staff lineup.

“It’s nearly six,” said Tracey, checking her wrist watch and then staring down the drive that led to the front gates. “How do you think they’ll be coming? Not the train, surely?”

“Probably not,” said Violet.

“They can’t be travelling by broomstick . . . not from that far away . . .”

“Maybe they’re taking a Portkey?”

“Or they could Apparate!” said Tracey excitedly. “Maybe you’re allowed to do it under seventeen wherever they come from?”

“You can’t Apparate inside the Hogwarts grounds, though . . .” Violet mumbled, craning her neck to try and get a better look down the lane.

They scanned the darkening grounds excitedly, but nothing was moving; everything was still, silent, and quite as usual. Violet was starting to feel cold. She wished they’d hurry up . . . Maybe the foreign students were preparing a dramatic entrance . . . She remembered what Mr. Weasley had said back at the campsite before the Quidditch World Cup: “always the same — we can’t resist showing off when we get together . . .”

And then Dumbledore called out from the back row where he stood with the other teachers —

“Aha! Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!”

“Where?” said many students eagerly, all looking in different directions.

_ “There!” _ yelled a sixth year, pointing over the forest.

Something large, much larger than a broomstick — or, indeed, a hundred broomsticks — was hurtling across the deep blue sky toward the castle, growing larger all the time.

“It’s a dragon!” shrieked one of the first years, losing her head completely.

“Don’t be stupid . . . it’s a flying house!” said another first year boy.

The boy’s guess was closer . . . As the gigantic black shape skimmed over the treetops of the Forbidden Forest and the lights shining from the castle hit it, they saw a gigantic, powder-blue, horse-drawn carriage, the size of a large house, soaring toward them, pulled through the air by a dozen winged horses, all palominos, and each the size of an elephant.

The front three rows of students drew backward as the carriage hurtled ever lower, coming in to land at a tremendous speed — then, with an almighty crash, the horses’ hooves, larger than dinner plates, the hit the ground. A second later, the carriage landed too bouncing upon its vast wheels, while the golden horses — Abraxans, Violet knew from her various books on magical creatures —  tossed their enormous heads and rolled large, fiery red eyes.

Violet just had time to see that the door of the carriage bore a coat of arms (two crossed, golden wands, each emitting three stars) before it opened.

A boy in pale blue robes jumped down from the carriage, fumbled for a moment with something on the carriage, and unfolded a set of golden steps. He sprang back respectfully. Then Violet saw a shining, high-heeled black shoe emerging from the inside of the carriage — a shoe the size of a child’s sled — followed, almost immediately, by the largest woman she had ever seen in her life. The size of the carriage, and of the horses, was immediately explained. A few people, including Violet, gasped.

Violet had only ever seen one person as large as this woman in her life, and that was Hagrid; she doubted whether there was in difference in their heights. Yet somehow — maybe simply because she was so used to Hagrid — this woman (now at the foot of the steps, and looking around at the waiting, wide-eyed crowd) seemed even more unnaturally large. As she stepped into the light flooding from the entrance hall, she was revealed to have a handsome, olive-skinned face; large, black, liquid-looking eyes; and a strong, arched nose. Her hair was drawn back in a shining bun at the base of her neck. She was dressed from head to foot in black satin, and many magnificent opals gleamed at her throat and on her fingers.

Dumbledore started to clap; the students, following his lead, broke into applause too, many of them standing on tiptoe, the better to look at this magnificent woman.

Her face relaxed into a gracious smile and she walked forward toward Professor Dumbledore, extending a glittering hand. Dumbledore, though tall himself, had barely to bend to kiss it.

“My dear Madame Maxime,” he said. “Welcome to Hogwarts.”

“Dumbly-dorr,” said Madame Maxine in a deep, throaty sort of voice that made Violet feel slightly melty. “I ‘ope I find you well?”

“In excellent form, I thank you,” said Dumbledore.

“My pupils,” said Madame Maxime, waving one her enormous hands carelessly behind her.

Violet, whose attention had been focused completely upon the beautiful Madame Maxime, now noticed that about a dozen boys and girls, all, by the look of them, in their late teens, had emerged from the carriage and were now standing behind Madame Maxime. They were shivering, which was unsurprising, given that their robes seemed to be made of fine silk, and none of them were wearing cloaks. A few had colorful scarves wrapped around their heads. From what Violet could see of them (they were standing in Madame Maxime’s long shadow), they were staring up at Hogwarts with apprehension looks on their faces.

“ ’As Karkaroff arrived yet?” Madame Maxime asked.

There was a funny, strangled sort of noise from Violet’s left; it sounded like someone had just had all the air squeezed abruptly from them. She looked curiously down the line and was surprised to see Cassius’ face had turned a horrible, blotchy red, his blue eyes wide as he stared at Dumbledore and Madame Maxime. Violet opened her mouth to whisper to him when Professor Dumbledore spoke.

“He should be here any moment,” he said. “Would you like to wait here and greet him or would you prefer to step inside and warm up a trifle?”

“Warm up, I think,” said Madame Maxime. “But ze ‘orses —”

“Our Care of Magical Creatures teacher will be delighted to take care of them,” said Dumbledore, “the moment he has returned from dealing with a slight situation that has arisen with some of his other — er — charges.”

“Skrewts,” Tracey muttered to Violet, oblivious to Cass’s strange reaction.

“My steeds require — er — forceful ‘andling,” said Madame Maxime, looking as though she doubted whether any Care of Magical Creatures teacher at Hogwarts would be up to the job. “Zey are very strong . . .”

“I assure you that Hagrid will be well up to the job,” said Dumbledore, smiling.

“Very well,” said Madame Maxime, bowing slightly. “Will you please inform zis ‘Agrid zat ze ‘orses only drink single-malt whiskey?”

“It will be attended to,” said Dumbledore, also bowing.

“Come,” said Madame Maxime imperiously to her students, and the Hogwarts crowd parted to allow her and her students to pass up the stone steps. Violet stood on tiptoes to watch her go. Then, when the Beauxbatons students were out of sight, she turned back to Cassius.

“What’s the matter?” she whispered, leaning around Millicent Bullstrode to do so. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” said Cass, from between his clenched teeth. He was staring straight ahead now, and wouldn’t look at Violet.

“You’re clearly  _ not,” _ Violet pushed.

“I said I’m fine!” Cassius snapped, suddenly sharp. A few other people, including Tracey, looked round at him. Violet flinched and straightened back into line.

“What’s wrong with him?” Tracey asked, looking between them with wide eyes.

“Nothing, apparently,” Violet said tightly. She didn’t like being snapped at that way, but this wasn’t the place to have that conversation. She stood, shivering slightly now, and joined in waiting for the Durmstrang party to arrive. Most people were gazing hopefully up at the sky. For a few minutes, the silence was broken only by Madame Maxime’s huge horses snorting and stamping. But then —

“Can you hear something?” said Tracey suddenly.

Violet listened; a loud and oddly eerie noise was drifting toward them from out of the darkness: a muffled rumbling and sucking sound, as though an immense vacuum cleaner were moving along a riverbed . . .

“The lake!” yelled Lee Jordan, pointing down to it. “Look at the lake!”

From their position at the top of the lawns overlooking the grounds, they had a clear view of the smooth black surface of the water — except that the surface was suddenly not smooth at all. Some disturbance was taking place deep in the center; great bubbles were forming on the surface, waves were now washing over the muddy banks — and then, out in the very middle of the lake, a whirlpool appeared, as if a giant plug had just been pulled out of the lake’s floor . . .

What seemed to be a long, black pole began to rise slowly out of the heart of the whirlpool . . . and then Violet saw the rigging . . .

“It’s a mast!” she gasped to Tracey.

Slowly, magnificently, the ship rose out of the water, gleaming in the moonlight. It had a strangely skeletal look about it, as though it were a resurrected wreck, and the dim, misty lights shimmering at its portholes looked like ghostly eyes. Finally, with a great sloshing noise, the ship emerged entirely, bobbing on the turbulent water, and began to glide toward the bank. A few moments later, they heard the splash of an anchor being thrown down in the shallows, and the thud of a plank being lowered onto the bank.

People were disembarking; they could see their silhouettes passing the lights in the ship’s portholes. All of them, Violet noticed, seemed to be built along the lines of Crabbe and Goyle . . . but then, as they drew nearer, walking up the lawns into the light streaming from the entrance hall, she saw that their bulk was really due to the fact that they were wearing cloaks of some kind of shaggy, matted fur. But the man who was leading them up to the castle was wearing furs of a different sort: sleek and silver, like his hair.

“Dumbledore!” he called heartily, in a fruity, unctuous sort of voice as he walked up the slope. “How are you, my dear fellow, how are you?”

“Blooming, thank you, Professor Karkaroff,” Dumbledore replied.

Violet immediately looked down the line at Cassius. Cassius looked, remarkably so, like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming freight train. Violet could see the entire whites of his eyes, and there was something horrible about the twist of his mouth. His hands, clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides, were visibly trembling. Violet quickly looked back to the man who had just arrived, who was now shaking Dumbledore’s hand with both of his own.

In the light pouring from the front doors of the castle they saw that he was tall and thin like Dumbledore, but his white hair was short, and his goatee (finishing in a small curl) did not entirely hide his rather weak chin.

“Dear old Hogwarts,” he said, looking up at the castle and smiling; his teeth were rather yellow, and Violet noticed that his smile did not extend to his eyes, which remained cold and shrewd. “How good it is to be here, how good . . . Viktor, come along, into the warmth . . . you don’t mind, Dumbledore? Viktor has a slight head cold . . .”

Karkaroff beckoned forward one of his students. As the boy passed, Violet caught a glimpse of a prominent curved nose and thick black eyebrows. She gasped aloud as the recognition hit her. It was a familiar profile, one she had seen streaking through the air at high speeds only a month before.

_ Viktor Krum. _


	12. The Goblet of Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

“I can’t believe it!” Violet said, still stunned, as the Hogwarts students filed back up the steps behind the party from Durmstrang. “It really is Krum!”

“Who’s Krum?” Tracey asked, eyeing the Durmstrang students excitedly. “Is he famous?”

“He’s a Quidditch player, we saw him play for Bulgaria at the World Cup,” Violet said. “I had no idea he was still at school!”

As they recrossed the entrance hall with the rest of the Hogwarts students heading for the Great Hall, Violet saw Lee Jordan jumping up and down on the soles of his feet to get a better look at the back of Krum’s head. Several sixth-year girls were frantically searching their pockets as they walked —

“Oh, I don’t believe it, I haven’t got a single quill on me —”

“D’you think he’d sign my hat in lipstick?”

“Should I get his autograph?” Tracey asked furtively, clinging to Violet’s sleeve. “You’ve met him — could  _ you _ get me his autograph?”

“I didn’t  _ meet _ him,” muttered Violet. “And what d’you want his autograph for? You didn’t even know who he was a minute ago.”

They walked over to Slytherin table and sat down. Instead of sitting with Tracey and Violet as he usually did, Cassius sat down the table with his fellow sixth years. Tracey was too busy positioning herself to view Krum and his fellow Durmstrang students to notice the terrible look still on Cass’s face.

“They’re coming over here!” squeaked Tracey, elbowing Violet hard in the ribs. “Budge up, look, he’s headed this way —”

The Durmstrang students were indeed coming toward the Slytherin table, and a great amount of shuffling took place to make room for the boys and girls in their bulky furs. Viktor Krum did sit quite close to Violet and Tracey — unfortunately, his attention was immediately snatched by Draco Malfoy, who leaned in to introduce himself before Krum had even finished sitting down.

The Durmstrang students began pulling off their heavy furs, revealing robes of a deep bloodred, and looking up at the starry black ceiling with expressions of interest; a couple of them were picking up the golden plates and goblets, apparently impressed. By contrast the Beauxbatons students, who had seated themselves at the Ravenclaw table, were looking around the Great Hall with glum expressions on their faces. At least they had stopped shivering.

Up at the staff table, Filch, the caretaker, was adding chairs. He was wearing his moldy old tailcoat in honour of the occasion. Violet was surprised to see that he added four chairs, two on either side of Professor Dumbledore’s.

“But there’s only two extra people,” Violet said. “Who are the other chairs meant for?”

“Hm?” said Tracey vaguely. She was still peeking avidly at Krum.

When all the students had entered the Hall and settled down at their House tables, the staff entered, filing up to the top table and taking their seats. Last in line were Professor Dumbledore, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime. When their headmistress appeared, the pupils from Beauxbatons leapt to their feet. A few of the Hogwarts students laughed. The Beauxbatons party appeared quite unembarrassed, however, and did not resume their seats until Madame Maxime had sat down on Dumbledore’s left-hand side. Professor Dumbledore remained standing, and a silence fell over the Great Hall.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, ghosts and — most particularly — guests,” said Dumbledore, beaming around at the foreign students. “I have great pleasure in welcoming you all to Hogwarts. I hope and trust that your stay here will be both comfortable and enjoyable.”

One of the Beauxbatons girls wearing a colourful head scarf gave what was unmistakably a derisive laugh.

“The tournament will be officially opened at the end of the feast,” said Dumbledore, paying no mind. “I now invite you all to eat, drink, and make yourselves at home!”

He sat down, and Violet saw Karkaroff lean forward at once and engage him in conversation.

The plates in front of them filled with food as usual. There was a greater variety of dishes in front of them than Violet had ever seen, including several that were definitely foreign.

“I bet the house elves worked overtime to get all of this ready,” Violet said to Tracey, hesitantly helping herself to a dish of some sort of shellfish stew. Tracey’s expression of delight dropped.

“I hadn’t thought of that . . . Oh no . . . Violet, should we be eating any of this?”

Violet shrugged unhappily and said, “Better than letting it go to waste. Look, there’s black pudding and all.”

Hagrid sidled into the Hall through a door behind the staff table twenty minutes after the start of the feast. He slid into his seat at the end and waved back at those looking after him with a very heavily bandaged hand.

“Oh, I hope the skrewts didn’t do that to him,” Tracey said nervously. “We’ve got to look after them on Monday . . .”

Violet grimaced, but any thoughts of Hagrid’s horrid skrewts was quickly wiped from her mind. The door behind the staff table had opened again, and two more familiar faces had just stepped through and filled the two remaining empty seats. Ludo Bagman was now sitting on Professor Karkaroff’s other side, while Mr. Crouch, Percy’s boss, was next to Madame Maxime.

“Who are they?” Tracey asked, following Violet’s stunned eyeline. “Do you know them as well?”

“Sort of,” said Violet, staring. She wasn’t pleased to see Mr. Crouch again. “We were introduced at the World Cup. They helped organize the Triwizard Tournament . . . I suppose they’d want to be here to see it start.”

When the second course arrived they noticed a number of unfamiliar desserts too. An assortment of golden, flakey pastries appeared near Krum, and he sampled generously from them. All of the Durmstrang students seemed to be enjoying the meal immensely. Down the table, Violet noted with concern that Cass had barely added anything to his plate.

Once the golden plates had been wiped clean, Professor Dumbledore stood up again. A pleasant sort of tension seemed to fill the Hall now. Violet felt a slight thrill of excitement, wondering what was coming.

“The moment has come,” said Dumbledore, smiling around at the sea of upturned faces. “The Triwizard Tournament is about to start. I would like to say a few words of explanation before we bring in the casket —”

“The  _ what?” _ Violet muttered.

Tracey shrugged.

“— just to clarify the procedure that we will be following this year. But first, let me introduce, for those who do not know them, Mr. Bartemius Crouch, Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation —” there was a smattering of polite applause, to which Violet did not contribute — “and Mr. Ludo Bagman, Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sport.”

There was a much louder round of applause for Bagman than for Crouch, perhaps of his fame as a Beater, or simply because he looked so much more likable. He acknowledged it with a jovial wave of his hand. Bartemius Crouch did not smile or wave when his name was announced. Remembering him in his neat suit at the Quidditch World Cup, Violet thought he looked strange in wizard’s robes. His toothbrush moustache and severe parting looked very odd next to Dumbledore’s long white hair and beard.

“Mr. Bagman and Mr. Crouch have worked tirelessly over the last few months on the arrangements for the Triwizard Tournament,” Dumbledore continued, “and they will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxime on the panel that will judge the champions’ efforts.”

At the mention of the word “champions,” the attentiveness of the listening students seemed to sharpen. Perhaps Dumbledore had noticed their sudden stillness, for he smiled as he said, “The casket, then, if you please, Mr. Filch.”

Filch, who had been lurking unnoticed in a far corner of the hall, now approached Dumbledore carrying a great wooden chest encrusted with jewels. It looked extremely old. A murmur of excited interest rose from the watching students; a few people actually stood up to see it properly.

“The instructions for the tasks the champions will face this year have already been examined by Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman,” said Professor Dumbledore as Filch placed the chest carefully on the table before him, “and they have made the necessary arrangements for each challenge. There will be three tasks, spaced throughout the school year, and they will test the champions in many different ways . . . their magical prowess — their daring — their powers of deduction — and, of course, their ability to cope with danger.”

At this last word, the Hall was filled with a silence so absolute that nobody seemed to be breathing.

“As you know, three champions compete in the tournament,” Dumbledore went on calmly, “one from each of the participating schools. They will be marked on how well they perform each of the Tournament tasks and the champion with the highest total after task three will win the Triwizard Cup. The champions will be chosen by an impartial selector: the Goblet of Fire.”

Dumbledore now took out his wand and tapped three times upon the top of casket. The lid creaked slowly open. Dumbledore reached inside it and pulled out a large, roughly hewn wooden cup. It would have been entirely unremarkable had it not been full to the brim with dancing blue-white flames.

Dumbledore closed the casket and placed the goblet carefully on top of it, where it would be clearly visible to everyone in the Hall.

“Anybody wishing to submit themselves as a champion must write their name and school clearly upon a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet,” said Professor Dumbledore. “Aspiring champions have twenty-four hours in which to put their names forward. Tomorrow night, Halloween, the goblet will return the names of the three it has judged most worthy to represent their schools. The goblet will be placed in the entrance hall tonight, where it will be freely accessible to all those wishing to compete.

“To ensure that no underage student yields to temptation,” said Dumbledore, “I will be drawing an Age Line around the Goblet of Fire once it has been placed in the entrance hall. Nobody under the age of seventeen will be able to cross this line.

“Finally, I wish to impress upon any of you wishing to compete that this tournament is not be entered lightly. Once a champion has been selected by the Goblet of Fire, they are obliged to see the tournament through to the end. The placing of your name into the goblet constitutes a binding, magical contract. There can be no change of heart once you have become a champion. Please be very sure, therefore, that you are wholeheartedly prepared to play before you drop your name into the goblet. Now, I think it is time for bed. Good night to you all.”

“What’s an Age Line?” Violet asked Tracey as they all began rising from the table. Tracey shrugged.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But if it’s going to be in the middle of the entrance hall, how are people supposed to get to their classes without crossing it? Will we get in trouble if we touch it?”

“Maybe it’s just like a barrier,” Violet said. “I don’t suppose it would be  _ that _ in the way . . .”

Violet and Tracey had just joined the back of the crowd funneling through the doorway when she bumped into Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

“Did you see him?” Ron said at once, staring intently over Violet’s shoulder. “Did you  _ talk _ to him? What did he say, did he remember us?”

“Who?” Violet asked, bewildered. Ron nodded jerkily behind her.

_ “Krum!” _ he said. “Are they gonna be staying with you? Dumbledore didn’t say where the Durmstrang people are sleeping, did he?”

But this query was answered almost instantly; Violet turned, and saw that Karkaroff had just bustled up to his students.

“Back to the ship, then,” he was saying. “Viktor, how are you feeling? Did you eat enough? Should I send for some mulled wine from the kitchens?

Violet saw Krum shake his head and he pulled his furs back on; he didn’t look particularly enthused to have Karkaroff doting on him, she noticed.

“Professor,  _ I _ vood like some wine,” said one of the other Durmstrang boys hopefully.

“I wasn’t offering it to  _ you, _ Poliakoff,” his warmly paternal air vanishing in an instant. “I notice you have dribbled food all down the front of your robes again, disgusting boy —”

Karkaroff turned and led his students toward the doors, reaching them at exactly the same moment as Harry, Violet, and their friends. Harry stopped in place to let him walk through first.

“Thank you,” said Karkaroff, carelessly, glancing at him.

And then Karkaroff froze. He turned his head back to Harry, gaze flickering quickly between him and Violet, standing just behind him, and stared as though he couldn’t believe his eyes. Behind their headmaster, the students from Durmstrang came to a halt too. Karkaroff’s eyes moved slowly up Harry’s face and fixed upon his scar. The Durmstrang students were staring curiously at them too. Out of the corner of her eye, Violet sat comprehension dawn on a few of their faces. The boy will food all down his front nudged the girl next to him and pointed openly at Harry’s forehead.

“Yeah, that’s the Potters,” said a growling voice from behind them.

Professor Karkaroff spun around. Mad-Eye Moody was standing there, leaning heavily on his staff, his magical eye glaring unblinkingly at the Durmstrang headmaster.

The colour drained from Karkaroff’s face as Violet watched. A terrible look of mingled fury and fear came over him.

“You!” he said, staring at Moody as though unsure he was really seeing him.

“Me,” said Moody grimly. “And unless you’ve got anything to say to the twins, Karkaroff, you might want to move. You’re blocking the doorway.”

It was true; half the students in the Hall were now waiting behind them, looking over one another’s shoulders to see what was causing the holdup.

Without another word, Professor Karkaroff swept his students away with him. Moody watched him until he was out of sight, his magical eye fixed upon his back, a look of intense dislike upon his mutilated face.

 

As the next day was Saturday, most students would normally breakfast late, so Violet and Tracey didn’t find it strange for Cassius not to be up and about in the common room when they awoke. They were not alone in rising much earlier than they usually did on weekends. When they went down into the entrance hall, they saw about twenty people milling around it, some of them eating toast, all examining the Goblet of Fire. It had been placed in the center of the hall on the stool that normally bore the Sorting Hat. A thin golden line had been traced on the floor, forming a circle ten feet around it in all directions. Unsurprisingly, Harry, Ron, and Hermione, were already loitering around it.

“Who all has put their names in?” Tracey asked excitedly as she and Violet hurried over.

“Dunno,” Ron said, “we just got here, too. Oi —” he flagged down a third-year girl, “Anyone put their name in yet?”

“All the Durmstrang lot,” she replied. “But I haven’t seen anyone from Hogwarts yet.”

“Bet some of them put it in last night after we’d all gone to bed,” said Harry. “I would’ve if it had been me . . . Wouldn’t have wanted everyone watching. What if the goblet just gobbed you right back out again?”

Violet squinted suspiciously at her brother. “Harry, you  _ haven’t _ put your name in, have you?”

“Of course not,” said Harry, frowning. “We’re a long way from seventeen, Vi. Besides, I think I’d like to have a quiet year for once, y’know?”

Someone laughed behind Harry. Turning, they saw Fred, George, and Lee Jordan hurrying down the staircase, all three of them looking extremely excited.

“Done it,” Fred said in a triumphant whisper to the five of them. “Just taken it.”

“What?” said Violet.

“The Aging Potion,” said Fred, his eyes sparkling. “To get past the age line.”

“One drop each,” said George, rubbing his hands together with glee. “We only need to be a few months older.”

“We’re going to split the thousand Galleons between the three of us if one of us wins,” said Lee, grinning broadly.

“I’m not sure this is going to work, you know,” said Hermione warningly. “I’m sure Dumbledore will have thought of this.”

“I believe in you,” Violet said boldly. Fred, George, and Lee beamed at her.

“Ready?” said Fred to the other two, quivering with excitement. “C’mon, then — I’ll go first —”

Violet watched, apprehensive despite her words of encouragement, as Fred pulled a slip of parchment out of his pocket bearing the words  _ Fred Weasley  _ —  _ Hogwarts. _ Fred walked right up to the edge of the line and stood there, rocking on his toes like a diver preparing for a fifty-foot drop. Then, with the eyes of every person in the entrance hall upon him, he took a great breath and stepped over the line.

For a split second, Violet thought it had worked — George certainly thought so, for he let out a yell of triumph and leapt after Fred — but next moment, there was a loud sizzling sound, and both twins were hurled out of the golden circle as though they had been thrown by an invisible shot-putter. They landed painfully, ten feet away on the cold stone floor, and both of them sprouted identical long white beards.

The entrance hall rang with laughter. Even Fred and George joined in, once they had gotten to their feet and taken a good look at each other’s beards.

“I did warn you,” said a deep, amused voice, and everyone turned to see Professor Dumbledore coming out of the Great Hall. Hey surveyed Fred and George, his eyes twinkling. “I suggest you both go up to Madam Pomfrey. She is already tending to Miss Fawcett, of Ravenclaw, and Mr. Summers, of Hufflepuff, both of whom decided to age themselves up a little too. Though I must say, neither of their beards is anything like as fine as yours.”

Fred and George set off for the hospital wing, accompanied by Lee, who was howling with laughter, and Harry and Violet parted ways, also chortling, as they went in to breakfast.

The decorations in the Great Hall had changed this morning. As it was Halloween, a cloud of live bats was fluttering around the enchanted ceiling, while hundreds of carved pumpkins leered from every corner. Violet and Tracey headed over to Slytherin table, where Suzanna and Millicent were discussing those Hogwarts students of seventeen or over who might be entering.

“Derrick and Bole are planning to put their names in at lunchtime,” said Suzanna, rumpling her nose. “I overheard them talking about it last night — they think that’s when they’ll have the biggest audience.”

“I hope neither of them gets picked,” Millicent muttered. “Not that I don’t want one of ours for to be champion, mind,” she added quickly, “just not of those idiots.”

“What about Warrington?” asked Suzanna eagerly. “He had a birthday last week — you two spend a lot of time with him, has he said anything about entering the competition?”

“Not to  _ us,” _ said Tracey, “but apparently he’s mentioned it.”

Violet started to ask, “Have you heard about anyone from other Houses trying out?” but was drowned out by a sudden cheering from the entrance hall. They all swiveled around in their seats and saw Angelina Johnson coming into the Hall, grinning in an embarrassed sort of way. A tall black girl, Violet recognized her as being one of the Chasers on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Millicent was shaking her head in disgust.

“We can’t have a Gryffindor champion! It’s bad enough, them stealing the House Cup from under us the last few years.”

“And all the Hufflepuffs are talking about Diggory,” said Suzanna, tossing her long hair contemptuously, “thought I can’t imagine  _ why _ — I wouldn’t’ve thought he’d want to risk his good looks.”

“He’s really clever, though!” said Tracey at once, and the other three girls looked at her. She cleared her throat and said, “I mean, he studies a lot, and he is a prefect after all. He’d be better than Derrick or Bole.”

“Maybe so, but he’s still a Hufflepuff,” Suzanna said, as though that settled the matter. Looking very much like she wanted to say something else, Tracey shut her mouth and turned away to enjoy her oatmeal.

When breakfast was nearly over and there had still been no sign of Cassius, Violet began to worry. Breakfast was his favourite meal of the day, and it wasn’t like him not to seek her and Tracey out to say good morning. But then, it was unlike him to stomp off to bed without a backward glance as he had done the night before.

Something was up, Violet concluded. He’d been acting strange all year; first around Professor Moody, and the night before when Professor Karkaroff arrived. There was a connection there that Cass wasn’t telling them about and, as much as Violet understood and respected keeping some things to oneself, she couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever this was was something that needed airing out.

Agreeing to meet back in the entrance hall in an hour, Violet and Tracey set out in opposite directions in search of Cassius.

What Violet didn’t tell Tracey, and felt only slightly guilty about doing, was that she planned to use the Marauder’s Map to find where Cass had slipped off to. The map, created by her father and his friends while they were at school, portrayed a detailed layout of Hogwarts’ castle and grounds. As large and confusing as the school was, this would have been a feat in and of itself — but the Marauders, as they called themselves, took it several steps farther. Moving across the map’s surface were hundreds upon hundreds little black dots, all accompanied by a tiny little nametag: one for every single person in the school. There, down by the edge of the Forbidden Forest, was Hagrid outside of his hut, likely tending to his garden. Peeves the Poltergeist was up to some sort of mischief in the astronomy tower. Down in the dungeons, where Violet looked first to be sure that Cass wasn’t simply having a lie-in, she saw the Slytherin common room was packed with the Quidditch team. Cass’s name was nowhere to be found, however.

It took ten minutes of careful searching, squinting down at the little ant-like dots scurrying back and forth, before Violet finally located the one bearing the name  _ Cassius Warrington. _ He was all alone, pacing around the third floor trophy room. Violet watched his dot for a moment, making sure he wasn’t about to leave and head somewhere else, before wiping the map, stuffing it inside the pocket of her robes, and setting off.

The trophy room was one of the many parts of the castle that Violet had never been to before. It didn’t seem to be a very popular place, though perhaps everyone was currently distracted by the Goblet of Fire in the entrance hall; she only passed one other person on the way upstairs, and then the halls were quiet and empty.

The door of the trophy room was less a door, really, than a large iron gate. It opened smoothly and silently as Violet pressed a hand against the bars and slipped inside. The large room was covered floor to ceiling in shelves containing all manner of trophies, awards, cups, plates, shields, and medals, all gleaming as though freshly polished from behind their crystal cases. Several grand bronze statues stood in the center of the room; a life-sized figure with flowing hair and robes held aloft what looked like a round, fat little bird. Another portrayed a meek looking man, head bowed over the sculpted sword in his outstretched hands.

The contents of the room were so dazzling that for a moment Violet forgot what she’d come here for — and then Cassius stepped out from behind one of the statues, arms crossed and frowning, and she remembered.

“Oh,” Violet said, “hi.”

“Should’ve known you’d find me,” Cass grunted. He didn’t look pleased to see her. “Is Tracey here too?”

“No,” said Violet. “Just me.” Mirroring his posture, though mostly to stop herself from fidgeting, she crossed her arms as well and said, “We missed you at breakfast.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“Oh,” said Violet, again. “Are you — are you feeling alright?”

“Fine, thanks,” said Cassius in the same flat, dismissive voice. “Just wanted some time to myself.”

“Oh,” Violet repeated, feeling more stupid by the moment. Of course he’d wanted to be alone; that’s why he wasn’t with her and Tracey in the first place. If he’d  _ wanted _ to talk to them then he would have, instead of hiding away in the most unlikely of places all by himself —

“Did you want something?” Cass asked abruptly, and Violet felt her face go red.

“I’m just worried about you,” she blurted defensively. “Me and Tracey, we both are. You’ve been acting funny, and you won’t tell us anything. I just thought if there was something going on that you might want to talk about it?”

Cassius gave her a long, impassive stare. There was a muscle going in his jaw, like he was angry, only his eyes didn’t have any anger in them at all. Then, just when Violet was ready to turn tail and leave him be, he said, “There’s nothing to be worried about, Vi. Thanks for checking up on me, but you can tell Tracey I’m alright. I really just want to be alone for a little while.”

The finality in his tone was undeniable. Violet had been well and truly shut out.

But if there was one trait that Violet had in common with her brother, despite their many differences — as people had become so fond of pointing out to them — it was stubbornness.

“Does this have anything to do with that man from Durmstrang? Professor Karkaroff?”

At the name, Cass’s eyes widened. There was a flash of anger, and maybe panic, and this his face smoothed over into deliberate blankness.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said flatly.

“I saw your face, when his name came up, and when he was shaking Dumbledore’s hand,” Violet pressed, standing her ground. “And you hardly ate anything at dinner — who is he to you?”

“Nobody,” Cassius said. “He’s not anybody to me.”

“He’s obviously  _ someone _ . . . I didn’t see anyone else reacting the way you did.”

The tic in his cheek jumped visibly.

“So you had a look around at everyone then, did you? Glad to know I’m not the only one under constant nanny watch.”

Violet frowned, hurt. “That’s not fair, Cassius. And you’re changing the subject —”

“Noticed that too, eh?”

“I’m only trying to help you! Why are you being such an arse about it?”

“I didn’t  _ ask _ for you help, and I’ve already told you about a dozen time that nothing’s wrong. I’m trying to have some time to myself, is that a bloody crime now?”

“But what about Karkaroff —”

“It doesn’t matter, Violet!” shouted Cass, unable to keep his cool any longer. “It doesn’t matter who he is, or what he’s done, or whether or not I’ve got a problem with him. It’s got nothing to do with you. It’s none of your  _ business, _ alright?”

Violet took a step backwards, stung by his tone and his words. Both of his hands were balled into fists at his sides and the blotchiness was back in his cheeks. She’d never seen him this angry before, not at anyone. The fact that it was at  _ her _ only made it worse. Violet swallowed.

“Okay,” she said, trying not to sound as upset as she felt. “Fine. Sorry, then, for bothering you about it.”

Violet turned on her heel and walked briskly back the way she’d come, past the trophies and out through the gleaming metal doors. Her footsteps echoed evenly off the stone walls as she hurried along, fighting back the usual tears that allows followed any sort of confrontation. She swallowed back her hurt and confusion and forced it down into a neat, manageable little ball that sat like a stone in her belly. 

Sitting on the steps in the entrance hall, it took twenty minutes for Tracey to make her way back, panting, with a slight sheen of sweat on her forehead.

“I’ve looked  _ everywhere,” _ she panted, “I thought I’d found him in the Astronomy Tower, but it was only Peeves putting soot on all the telescopes. Professor Sinistra will be furious when she finds out . . . What about you? Any luck?”

“No,” Violet lied, not really sure why she was doing so. “I — I didn’t find him either.”

Tracey chewed her lower lip, looking very concerned. “You don’t think something’s happened to him, do you? Should we go and check in the hospital wing?”

“He’s probably fine,” said Violet quickly. “I mean, we’d have heard if he was hurt or anything. Maybe he just needed a break.”

“A break from what?”

“Us,” Violet said, shrugging. Tracey balked.

“That’s ridiculous, we’re wonderful. I’ll bet he’s trying to rile us up and try to make us feel stupid for supporting S.P.E.W. Well, that’s not going to work. I’d never turn my back on a good cause.”

She puffed out her chest slightly, showing off the bright blue button pinned to her robes. Violet fished her own badge out of her pocket and hastily pinned it on as well. She smiled weakly at Tracey.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up, Trace,” she said, her stomach lurching uneasily. But the smile stayed on and seemed to put Tracey at ease.

 

There was no sign of Cassius for the rest of the day, even though both Tracey and Violet were keeping a keen eye out for him. By half past five it was growing dark and the school was beginning to buzz with the excitement of the Halloween feast — and, more important, the announcement of the school champions.

When they entered the candlelit Great Hall it was almost full. The Goblet of Fire had been moved; it was now standing in front of Dumbledore’s empty chair at the teacher’s table.

And there, sitting in his usual seat with his hands resting casually on the table, was Cass.

Tracey descended upon him at once.

_ “Where have you been?” _ she hissed, startling the two fifth year boys to her right. “Do you know we’ve been looking everywhere for you?”

“I’ve been around,” Cassius said, smiling calmly at her. His eyes passed smoothly over Violet, cool and dispassionate. This only seemed to infuriate Tracey even more.

_ “Around? _ What does that even  _ mean?” _

“It means I was around, and now I’m here,” he said plainly, still maintaining his calm tone and expression, despite the fact that a vein was pulsing in Tracey’s forehead. “Can’t wait for some yummy treacle, can you?”

“You’re a menace,” Tracey muttered, as the golden plates in front of them filled with all manner of delicious, steaming foods. “We were really worried about you, y’know. And while you were busy avoiding us, you’ve missed your chance to put your name in for the tournament!”

“I have not,” said Cass. “I put my name in the Goblet hours ago.”

“What?” said Violet and Tracey together, stunned. “How could you have?” Tracey cried, “we’ve been waiting around in the entrance hall for most of the day, and  _ I _ didn’t see you.”

“I did it this morning,” Cassius told them, spearing a thick slice of ham from a heaping platter, “before anyone else was up. Nobody else saw me, either.”

“But where’s the fun in that?” demanded Tracey. “And why didn’t you tell us you planned to do it in the first place?”

“Because I’m a menace, I suppose,” he answered, smirking.

The Halloween feast seemed to take much longer than usual. Perhaps because it was their second feast in two days, Violet didn’t seem to fancy the extravagantly prepared food as much as she would have normally. Like everyone else in the Hall, judging by the constantly craning necks, the impatient expressions on every face, the fidgeting, and the standing up to see whether Dumbledore had finished eating yet, Violet simply wanted the plates to clear, and to hear who had been selected as champions.

At long last, the golden plates returned to their original spotless state; there was a sharp upswing in the level of noise within the Hall, which died away almost instantly as Professor Dumbledore got to his feet. On either side of him, Professor Karkaroff and Madame Maxime looked as tense and expectant as anyone. Ludo Bagman was beaming and winking at various students. Mr. Crouch, however, looked quite uninterested, almost bored.

“Well, the goblet is almost ready to make its decision,” said Dumbledore. “I estimate that it requires one more minute. Now, when the champions’ names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall, walk along the staff table, and go through into the next chamber” — he indicated the door behind the staff table — “where they will be receiving their first instructions.”

He took out his wand and gave a great sweeping wave with it; at once, all the candles except those inside the carved pumpkins were extinguished, plunging them into a state of semidarkness. The Goblet of Fire now shone more brightly than anything in the whole Hall, the sparkling bright, bluey-whiteness of the flames almost painful on the eyes. Everyone watched, waiting . . . A few people kept checking their watches . . .

“Any second,” Suzanna Runcorn whispered, two seats away from Violet.

The flames inside the goblet turned suddenly red. Sparks began to fly from it. Next moment, a tongue of flame shot into the air, a charred piece of parchment fluttered out of it — the whole room gasped.

Dumbledore caught the piece of parchment and held it at arm’s length, so that he could read it by the light of the flames, which had returned to blue-white.

“The champion for Durmstrang,” he read, in a strong, clear voice, “will be Viktor Krum.”

A storm of applause and cheering swept the Hall. Violet watched Viktor Krum rise from his seat down the table from her and slouch up toward Dumbledore; he turned right, walked along the staff table, and disappeared through the door into the next chamber.

“Bravo, Viktor!” boomed Karkaroff, so loudly that everyone could hear him, even over all the applause. “Knew you had it in you!”

The clapping and chatting died down. Now everyone’s attention was focused again on the goblet, which, seconds later, turned red once more. A second piece of parchment shot out of it, propelled by the flames.

“The champion for Beauxbatons,” said Dumbledore, “is Fleur Delacour!”

From the Ravenclaw table rose the most beautiful girl that Violet had ever seen in her life. She watched slack-jawed as Fleur Delacour got gracefully to her feet, shook back a sheet of silvery blonde hair, and swept up between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables.

“Oh look, they’re all disappointed,” said Tracey over the noise, nodding toward the remainder of the Beauxbatons party. “Disappointed” was a bit of an understatement, Violet thought, tearing her eyes away from the beautiful girl. Two of the girls who had not been selected had dissolved into tears and were sobbing with their heads on their arms.

When Fleur Delacour too had vanished into the side chamber, silence fell again, but this time it was a silence so stiff with excitement you could almost taste it. The Hogwarts champion next . . .

And the Goblet of Fire turned red once more; sparks showered out of it; the tongue of flame shot high into the air, and from its tip Dumbledore pulled the third piece of parchment.

“The Hogwarts champion,” he called, “is Cassius Warrington!”

“What?” said Cassius loudly, but nobody heard him except Violet; the uproar was too great. Every single Slytherin had jumped to their feet, screaming and stamping, pulling at Cassius’ as he stood there, wide-eyed and dumbstruck.

“You prat!” Tracey was screaming, jumping up and down as she shoved Cass forward, at once furious and delighted. “You did it, I can’t believe you did it!”

Violet was clapping so hard that her hands hurt as Cass finally made his way down the hall, grinning broadly, and headed off toward the chamber behind the teachers’ table. But while the Slytherins were all hollering in celebration, the reception from the rest of the school was decided chilly. The Ravenclaw were cheering, and the Hufflepuffs looked to be on their feet out of pure excitement, but the Gryffindor table was rather muted by comparison. Nonetheless, the Slytherins were making enough noise for all of them. Indeed, the applause for Cassius went on so long that it was some time before Dumbledore could make himself heard again.

“Excellent!” Dumbledore called happily as at last the tumult died down. “Well, we now have our three champions. I am sure I can count upon all of you, including the remaining students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang, to give your champions every ounce of support you can muster. By cheering your champion on, you will contribute in a very real —”

But Dumbledore suddenly stopped speaking, and it was apparent to everybody what had distracted him.

The fire in the goblet had just turned red again. Sparks were flying out of it. A long flame shot suddenly into the air, and borne upon it was another piece of parchment.

Automatically, it seemed. Dumbledore reached out a long hand and seized the parchment. He held it out and stared at the name written upon it. There was a long pause, during which Dumbledore stared at the slip in his hands, and everyone in the room stared at Dumbledore. And them Professor Dumbledore cleared his throat and read out —

_ “Harry Potter.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: As y'all may have noticed, there have been some changes made to canon. I have a plan, I'm already well deep into writing ahead, and there will be surprising consequences to this change that continue through the book and the rest of the series, when I get that far.
> 
> If Cedric Diggory is your favourite character, please do not yell at me. He still has a part to play in all this~


	13. The Four Champions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

As if in slow motion, Violet turned her head toward the Gryffindor table across the Hall and found her brother in the crowd. Harry sat there, face upturned toward the high table, mouth agape.

There was no applause. A buzzing, as though of angry bees, was starting to fill the Hall; some students were standing up to get a better look at Harry where he sat, frozen, in his seat.

Up at the high table, Professor McGonagall had got to her feet and swept past Ludo Bagman and Professor Karkaroff to whisper urgently to Professor Dumbledore, who bent his ear toward her, frowning slightly.

Across the Hall, Harry turned to look in Violet’s direction. They locked eyes and, ever so slightly, Harry shook his head.

“He didn’t do it,” Violet breathed, staring even as her brother turned to his friends, all wearing their own dumbstruck expression. “He doesn’t know what’s going on.”

Tracey didn’t answer. She too was staring blankly at Harry.

At the high table, Professor Dumbledore had straightened up, nodding to Professor McGonagall.

“Harry Potter!” he called again. “Harry! Up here, if you please!”

Harry rose uncertainly to his feet, trod on the hem of his robes, and stumbled slightly. Violet’s eyes were on him the entire way as he set off up the gap between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables, as were the hundreds and hundreds eyes of the rest of the school. The buzzing grew louder and louder, though Violet couldn’t make anything out over the pounding of her heart.

Dumbledore wasn’t smiling when Harry reached him; none of the teacher’s were. Professor McGonagall was wringing her hands in front of her, and Professor Lupin was watching Harry just as intently as Violet herself. Even Hagrid, who sat right at the end of the teacher’s table, did not wink, or wave, or give any of his usual signs of greeting as Harry passed him. Harry passed through the door and out of sight, and all hell broke loose in the Great Hall.

“How did he get his name in?”

“He’s too young, there’s no way they’ll let him compete —”

“Little cheat —”

“Does this mean we get  _ two _ champions? How’s that work?”

The swirl of comments and speculations that burst from all around was silenced with some difficulty by Professor Dumbledore, holding both hands in the air and calling for quiet.

“If I could have your attention for a moment longer,” Dumbledore said loudly, quelling the last of the buzzing. “The championship ceremony has been concluded. I offer warm thanks an appreciation to our guests, Mr. Crouch and Mr. Bagman, who will be of great further aid in working out the details of this extraordinary occurrence. Though I know it will be difficult to sleep after so much excitement, you are all encouraged to find whatever rest you may in anticipation of the surprises to come. A very goodnight to you all.”

And with that dismissal, Dumbledore turned and immediately headed for the door Harry had just vanished through, flanked by Mr. Crouch, Mr. Bagman, and Professors McGonagall and Snape.

The buzzing started up again. The prefects desperately tried to get everyone into orderly lines out of the Hall and back to their common rooms while also taking part in the discussion. Violet broke from the crowd immediately. Fighting against the tide of bodies, she pushed her way to the high table and ran up to Professor Lupin.

“What’s going to happen to Harry?” she demanded, startling him; he’d been staring toward the door with a worried expression on his pale face.

“I — I’m afraid I don’t know,” Lupin said, leaning down to speak to her. “Professor Dumbledore will sort this all out, Violet, I’m sure.”

“But what if he doesn’t?” Violet pressed, confusion now veering dangerously toward panic. “Last night he was talking about binding contracts and magical obligations, and about how the dangerous the tournament is supposed to be. They can’t  _ make _ Harry compete — can they?”

Lupin was doing an impressive imitation of Professor McGonagall now, with his mouth pressed into a thin, worried line. He glanced again toward the door Dumbledore and the champions had disappeared through.

“We’ll just have to see what happens,” said Professor Lupin quietly. “I’ll see if I can’t speak to Harry on his way out.” He looked back to Violet and flashed a nervous smile. “You should go along with the rest of your House, Violet. I’m sure there will be plenty of excitement in the dungeons tonight over Cassius being chosen.”

Tracey was waiting for her at the top of the stairs leading down into the Slytherin dungeons.

“What’s going on?” she hissed, latching onto Violet’s arm as soon as she came in range. “Did you talk to Cass, or to Harry? Are they going to make one of them step down?”

“I don’t know,” Violet said as the two of them headed down toward the common room. “I only got to speak with Professor Lupin, and he doesn’t know what’s going on either. But I can’t imagine they’d let Harry compete.”

“I should hope not! Not since he only got in by cheating.”

“What are you talking about?” Violet said, frowning. “Harry’s not a cheater.”

Tracey rolled her eyes. “Vi, really — how else could he have even gotten his name into the goblet in the first place? He’s not old enough. He must’ve cheated somehow.”

“Harry  _ doesn’t _ cheat!” Violet bristled, but by then they had reached the blank stretch of stone wall that served as the entrance into the Slytherin common room. Tracey spoke the password, the stretch of wall slid open, and the two girls stepped inside.

There was an immediate uproar.

“Where is he?” demanded a squat seventh year girl, craning to look behind Violet and Tracey. “Where’s Warrington?”

“Not with us,” said Tracey hotly. “I expect he’s still with the other champions.”

“The other  _ real _ champions,” said Graham Montague, a burly boy in same year as Cassius. He sneered disdainfully at Violet. “What does your brother think he’s playing at, eh, Potter? The little cheat’s got no chance.”

Violet’s face went flush with embarrassment and anger. “Harry’s not a cheat,” she said boldly.

A few people scoffed and rolled their eyes at her, but it was the cold voice cutting through the crowd that really set a fire in Violet’s belly.

“It’s always something with the two of you, isn’t it, Potter?” said Draco Malfoy loudly. The gathering of Slytherins parted to reveal him in his usual spot in front of the fire, leaning against the arm of the sofa where Crabbe and Goyle sat. His grey eyes were twin chips of ice set in his pale, pointed face. “It’s like you can’t help yourselves, always having to be the center of attention. What’s the matter — don’t get enough of it at home?”

A few  _ ‘ooohs’ _ went up around the room. Tracey took a step toward Malfoy, but Violet caught her arm and held her back.

“At least I can get attention without having to write home and beg for it,” Violet countered. “Don’t you think your father gets tired, having your owl pestering him with your problems every other day?”

The  _ ‘ooohs’ _ were louder this time and accompanied by a loud snort of laughter from the back of the room. Malfoy’s face went a livid shade of pink.

“You don’t know anything about my father,” he spat, “much less what we talk about. Not that you would, seeing as you haven’t  _ got _ one.”

“Alright,  _ enough!” _ called a firm female voice and the sixth year prefect, Zoey Accrington, stepped into the middle of the room. “Malfoy, Potter, you’re both out of bounds. Can we have just five minutes of House unity, please? One of ours was just named school champion!”

The room burst into cheers of excitement once more while Violet and Malfoy seethed at one another. Crabbe and Goyle stood to close ranks around Malfoy, cracking their knuckles threateningly, but even their massive forms were soon swallowed by the cheering, jumping crowd of Slytherins of all years. Tracey joined arms with Violet and bodily tugged her off to the side of the common room.

“I’ll get him for you,” she muttered into Violet’s ear over the din of the crowd. “Just say the word, Vi, and I’ll chuck a curse right at his evil little ferret face and put him in the hospital wing for a month . . . He’s just jealous because he couldn’t figure out how to slip his name into the goblet like Harry did . . .”

“I don’t think Harry  _ did _ put his name in the goblet,” Violet said once they were tucked out of the way.

“What are you talking about?” said Tracey incredulously.

“Didn’t you see his face when Dumbledore called on him?” said Violet. “He looked terrified — besides, he would’ve told me if he’d gone and done something like that. I’m sure of it.”

But Violet wasn’t entirely sure of that at all, actually. If Harry thought she might try to stop him or even get him in trouble for trying to put himself in danger . . .

Some of the doubt must have shown on her face because Tracey was looking very doubtful as well.

“I know the two of you are close, but I don’t think you can expect Harry to share everything he does with you. Do you tell him about everything that  _ you’ve _ done?”

The “yes” that Violet wanted to bite back with got stuck behind her teeth. It was a lie. She’d kept plenty of things from her brother, though she eventually came clean about (almost all) of them, and she would likely keep even more secrets in the future. But those were problems or fears, things that she didn’t need to worry anyone else with, not . . .  _ accomplishments. _ Harry wasn’t known for bragging, but he did like to share his excitement about things. Unless he wanted to surprise her . . .

But then Ron and Hermione had looked just as stunned as Violet when Harry’s name was called. Wouldn’t he have told them, at the very least?

Violet didn’t have any more time to descend into a spiral of doubt and anxiety, because at that moment the door to the common room opened once more and Cassius ducked his head inside. The sheer wall of noise that greeted him caused him to take a step back in shock. As one, the students in the common room rushed him with arms extended, all reaching to shake his hand and pat his back and clap him in the shoulder in congratulations. Cass was swallowed up in the crowd.

“There’s our champion!” shouted Derrick, one of the Beaters on the Slytherin Quidditch team. He grabbed Cassius by the wrist and hoisted his arm high into the air. A fresh cheer exploded out of the crowd. From where she stood, Violet could just see Cass’s flushed, grinning face through the sea of heads and shoulders. 

“Let me through!” Tracey said, trying to shove her way to the front of the common room. “He’s my friend — Hey!”

Despite her protests, Tracey rebounded off the wall of bodies without making any progress. She stood next to Violet and pouted.

“No fair, hogging him. He’ll never hear us if we try to congratulate him through all of this.”

“I want to know what’s happening with Harry,” Violet said anxiously. Tracey rolled her eyes.

“Harry’s  _ fine, _ Vi,” she said, “I know you’re happy for your brother, but can’t somebody else have a moment of excitement for once?”

“I’m not happy for Harry, I’m worried about him!” Violet protested, nettled by Tracey’s words. “Cass can have as much excitement as he wants, I just want to know —”

Another particularly loud cheer went up, and the next moment Cassius was lifted bodily into the air, held up on the shoulders of two seventh years boys. Tracey shrieked with laughter and joined in the clapping.

Violet alone didn’t seem to be in the mood to celebrate.

After a moment’s consideration, she turned on her heel and headed down into the girl’s dormitory. Even with the door firmly shut behind her she could still hear the loud chattering coming from the common room. She pulled the pillow over her head and rolled away from the door.

 

The next morning Violet woke early and dressed in a hurry, before any of the other girls were even awake. The hangings around Tracey’s bed were pulled open on the side facing Violet’s bed, leaving a slit just wide enough to see her sleeping, peaceful face. Violet pointedly avoided looking at Tracey; she was still nettled by her remarks from the night before, and hadn’t decided on what, if anything, she wanted to say about it just yet.

Slipping out into the stairwell, Violet was surprised to hear voices coming from the common room. Most people didn’t get up at this hour, much less after a full feast and such a night of excitement. She crept quietly up the stairs and peeked out into the common room.

Cassius was sitting on the sofa by the fire — Malfoy’s usual spot — and was surrounded by a small group of first and second years, bright eyes full of awe and admiration, leaning so far on the edge of their seats that some of them looked likely to slide right off of them.

“—big responsibility, isn’t it?” a boy was saying; Violet recognized him from the Sorting at the beginning of the year, but couldn’t remember his name. “Being chosen to represent us Slytherins —”

“Not just us!” chimed in a second year girl. “He’s going to be representing  _ all _ of Hogwarts in the tournament. It’s a  _ great _ honor,” she said in such a serious, reverent tone that Violet was forcibly reminded of Percy.

“Are you nervous?” asked the boy, only for another first year to scoff at him.

“‘Course he’s not nervous, Malcolm — he’s a  _ champion! _ Champions aren’t scared of anything!”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Cassius muttered, smiling nervously. He looked surprisingly at ease being surrounded by so many children. “I’m scared of loads of things.”

“Like what?” said the Percy girl, sounding shocked.

Cass raised a hand and started counting on his fingers.

“Vampires, dragons, skeletons, Professor McGonagall, Filch on a bad day — Filch on any day, really — tight spaces, drowning, being on fire, the dark, snakes —”

“Snakes!” exclaimed a first year girl. “How can you be a Slytherin if you’re scared of snakes?”

“They don’t bother me on tapestries and paintings and the like, just the real ones. Have you ever seen a real snake?”

“No,” said the girl, with a stubborn set to her jaw. “But I don’t think I’d be scared if I did see one.”

“Not even if it surprised you?” said Cassius, his voice dropping playfully as he leaned forward in his seat. “Not even if you were sitting there, minding your own business when all of a sudden . . . a snake came slithering along . . . and  _ got you!” _

Quick as a flash his arm streaked out into the girl’s belly, tickling her. Half the kids shrieked while the others broke out into uproarious laughter, and Violet didn’t even realize she was laughing too until Cassius turned in his seat and looked right at her. A wide smile and a bright blush spread across his face at the same time.

“Er — hi, Vi,” he stammered, “how long have you been standing there?”

“I haven’t,” Violet lied quickly, her face going flushed as well. “I just got here.”

One of the first year boys gasped loudly.

“You’re Violet Potter!” he said, pointing. His wide eyes swivelled back to Cass. “You  _ know _ her?”

“Most people do,” Cassius said airily. “She’s quite famous, y’know.”

“Is she your girlfriend?” asked one of the second year girls.

Cass and Violet both said, “No!” very loudly and then looked at one another. Cass’s face had gone pink again. He got abruptly to his feet.

“I bet the Great Hall will be a madhouse today,” Cassius said, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his trousers, “I think I’ll head down before it gets too crowded, get myself a seat. Fancy a walk, Vi?”

Violet, who was now being eyed suspiciously by all the young girls in front of the hearth, nodded automatically. “Y-yeah,” she stammered, “sure, I love walking.”

Violet’s face was scarlet as she followed Cass out of the common room doorway. Glancing back, she saw that two of the girls were now whispering to each other behind their hands and giggling. She quickly looked away again and was very grateful when the wooden door clicked shut behind her, followed by the stone wall sliding into place.

Suddenly it was very silent. Now that they were away from the glow of the fireplace, it was also very cold. Violet tucked her hands into her sleeves and shivered.

“Shall we?” Cass said, gesturing up the hallway. Violet nodded wordlessly, and then they were off.

The entrance hall was mostly deserted at this hour, save for a couple of ghosts who looked to be arguing with a portrait. With the Goblet of Fire no longer sitting in the middle of the floor, there was no reason for anyone to be up and loitering about this early. The ghosts paid them no mind as they passed, footsteps echoing softly off the flagstones. Violet wasn’t sure where they were heading but she followed all the same, trying to keep up with Cassius’ long-legged stride as he took the staircase two steps at a time.

Their fight from the day before was still fresh in Violet’s mind. She was hurt, and she wanted to be angry, and she wasn’t sure whether or not Cassius even wanted to speak to her or if he only wanted to get away from the kids in the common room, and she provided a convenient excuse.

Neither of them spoke until they’d reached the second-floor landing.

“I didn’t see you in the common room last night,” Cass said conversationally, “after the announcements. Tracey said you went to bed.”

“Er, yeah,” said Violet. “I was tired.”

“I thought you would have wanted to hear what the teachers told us, and what happened with Harry . . .”

“Is he alright?” she asked at once, forgetting her anger. “They’re not really going to make him compete, are they?”

“Well . . . actually, they are,” Cassius said, a deep frown settling onto his face. “We all thought there had been a mistake when they told us — Mr. Bagman introduced him as ‘the fourth champion’ and then all the teachers stormed in, arguing about how unfair it was for Hogwarts to have  _ two _ champions.”

“What did Harry say?”

“That he didn’t put his name in the Goblet, and he didn’t have anyone do it for him. Dumbledore believed him, and McGonagall stood by Dumbledore, but the other headmasters were ready to riot before Mad-Eye stepped in.” Cass lowered his voice into a passable impression of Professor Moody and said, “‘They’ve all got to compete. Binding magical contract. Powerful magic at work, to bamboozle the goblet like that.’”

“He reckons somebody jinxed the Goblet of Fire?” Violet asked in disbelief. “But — why?”

Cass went quiet. The two of them passed the third floor landing, still heading upward.

“I don’t want you to worry,” he said quietly, glancing sidelong at Violet, “but I know you will anyways, so I suppose I might as well tell you the truth. I don’t know if Harry will.”

“Harry doesn’t lie to me,” Violet said at once, but Cass shook his head.

“I know, but he might  _ not _ tell you some things, just like you do with me and Tracey if you think it’ll upset us. And what Moody said was . . . pretty upsetting, actually.”

Violet’s ears were already ringing.

“Cass, tell me,” she demanded. “Tell me what he said.”

“Promise me you won’t start crying?”

“I can absolutely not guarantee that and you know it.”

“Fair enough,” he smirked. But the expression faded quickly, back into a worried sort of frown as they climbed the next set of steps. “Alright, well, Moody definitely thinks somebody cursed the goblet into thinking there were four schools entering instead of three, to make sure Harry’s name would have to be chosen, and that he’d  _ have _ to compete. Nobody knows who or how they did it, but . . . Moody thinks whoever did it was trying to put Harry in danger. He said they might even hope he’ll die in the tournament.”

Violet’s stomach lurched.

“But that’s got to be rubbish,” she said, a touch of desperation creeping into her voice. “Mad-Eye’s not — I mean, the way people talk about him, he sees danger everywhere, doesn’t he?”

Cass let out a snort of laughter.

“Funny, that’s exactly what Karkaroff said.” He spat the name like a curse. For a moment, it looked as though he actually meant to spit it out of his mouth and onto the flagstones, but decided against it.

“What about Dumbledore?” Violet pressed. “Did he believe Moody?”

“He didn’t agree  _ or _ disagree with him; just said that we’ve got to deal with the situation, and both me and Harry had to compete. The other headmasters were livid, but with the ‘magically binding contract’ and all I don’t think there’s anything they could do about it. Bagman was the only one excited about the whole thing.”

“So what exactly are they expecting you to  _ do?” _ asked Violet, suddenly aware of just how many questions she was peppering Cassius with. “For the tasks, I mean. Did they tell you?”

Cass sighed heavily. “Only that there’s going to be three of them, and we’re not allowed to ask for help. The first one starts at the end of November and —”

“Not allowed to ask for help?” Violet exclaimed, stunned. “But — of course you’ll need to ask for help, what if you don’t know what’s going on, or don’t understand the rules, or —”

“It’s bollocks, I know,” Cassius said, “but they were really clear about that part, at least. The first task is going to be a  _ surprise, _ apparently. To see how we cope with danger and test our courage, or some nonsense like that. Here, let’s have a seat.”

Violet hadn’t been paying attention to where they were walking, so caught up was she in the stress of their conversation. She looked around with a start and realized they were all the way all the on the other side of the castle, having gone up one staircase and come down the other; they were back on the second floor.

“What are we doing here?” she asked. “I thought you were taking me somewhere.”

“Just for a walk,” Cass said, settling down on the wooden bench and motioning for Violet to join him. “Mostly I wanted to get out of the common room before everybody else got up. Last night was madness — I thought they’d never let me get to bed.”

Try as she might to drown it out, Violet had been well aware of the celebration raging in the common room until all hours of the morning. Slytherin House was taking its champion very seriously. She could only imagine what effect this whole thing would have on the already vicious rivalry with Gryffindor.

“I need to ask you a favour,” Violet said suddenly, at the same time that Cassius said, “I need to tell you about something.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Violet. “You go ahead —”

“You first,” Cass said, with a courteous little nod of his head. “I insist.”

“Oh.” Violet’s cheeks flushed pink. “Erm, well, like I said, I need a favour.”

“Name it,” Cass said at once.

“I need you to look after Harry.”

“Oh,” he said, blinking. “Wait, what?”

“In the tournament,” she pressed, “he’s going to need all the help he can get, and you’re the only one I can trust to look out for him.”

“I think your brother’s more than capable of looking out for himself, Vi,” said Cass, a little stiffly. “He’s managed to get this far.”

“I know, but this is different! This is a competition, it’s not something he can just run away from or duel his way out of. They made the rule that no one under seventeen could enter for a reason — we’re not strong enough to face whatever they’re going to pit you against —”

“Violet, you’re the most powerful witch I know,” Cass said flatly, “and Harry’s the same age as you. The two of you are far from helpless.”

“That’s — th-thank you, I mean, but —” Violet was blushing again, harder than before, and she had to pause for a moment to get her thoughts back together. “Look, I’m not asking you to babysit Harry, that’s my job. But can you at least . . . I dunno, go easy on him?”

Cassius’ eyebrows shot up.

“‘Go easy on him?’ You want me to let him beat me at the challenges?”

“Not  _ all _ of them,” Violet said, but the look on Cass’s face made her regret it. “N-no, okay, you don’t have to let him win, Cass, alright, but can you at least promise me you won’t hurt him? Or let him get hurt? The other champions are sure to try and take him out, and if I can’t be there to have his back —”

“Merlin’s arse, Violet, it’s not a fight to the death!” Cass said in exasperation.

“But it could be! People have  _ died _ in this tournament, Dumbledore said so when they first announced it, and you just told me he thinks someone might be trying to kill Harry —”

“No, I said  _ Mad-Eye _ thinks someone is trying to kill Harry, and Mad-Eye thinks everyone is out to kill each other because he’s a nutter —

“Somebody put Harry’s name into the goblet, and it wasn’t Harry,” Violet said firmly. “He’s being targeted. People have been trying to kill him since he was a baby and they haven’t stopped since, even if Voldemort is dead and gone forever —” Cass flinched fiercely at the name, but Violet didn’t apologize “— they’re still coming after us. All I’m asking is for someone else to have his back for once.”

Cassius did not look happy. His brow was deeply furrowed and there was an unpleasant frown pulling down the corners of his mouth, but at least he looked to be thinking about what she’d said. Violet didn’t think she was being unreasonable at all, but apparently she had crossed some sort of line.

“I can’t promise to let him win,” Cass said eventually, and Violet’s heart leapt, “but . . . if it comes down to it, I might take a hit for him once in a while. Keep the others off his back, I suppose.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” Violet said quickly. “I don’t want you to get hurt either, and I don’t expect you to give up your shot at winning. Just — just keep an eye out for him. That’ll be enough.”

“Fine. I will keep an eye on Harry for you. I promise.”

Violet heaved a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Cassius,” she said earnestly. “I know you think I worry too much, and maybe I do, but . . . he’s the only family I have. And after what happened at the World Cup, with the Death Eaters marching and not knowing where Pettigrew is . . . everything is just a little scary right now.” Violet reached out and placed her hand on Cass’s arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. “But I really appreciate you putting up with me, and saying you’ll help. It means a lot.”

Cassius was staring into his lap where Viole’s fingers rested on his wrist. It might have been her imagination, but he looked a bit more pink than before. Violet pulled her hand away and said, “Alright, your turn.”

He looked up her, blinking slowly.

“Huh?”

“You let me go first, so now it’s your turn.” When his muddled expression went unchanged she added, “You said you had something to tell me?”

“Oh! Oh, er yeah —” Cass straightened up and ran his fingers nervously through his hair. “Right, um . . . actually, nevermind that. It’s not important.”

“Are you sure? It sounded like it might be.”

Cassius shook his head. “Nah, not really. It’s almost time for breakfast, anyways. Shall we head back?”

The Great Hall was just starting to fill up when the two of them wandered in. A round of cheers went up from the Slytherin table as Cassius walked by, making him flush and duck his head; in their usual spot, Tracey was already waiting.

“There you two are!” she exclaimed as they took their seats. “Where’ve you been? I got worried when I woke up and saw you’d gone, Violet.”

“Sorry,” Violet said quickly, abashed. “I went to bed early, so I couldn’t sleep.”

“Me either,” Cass said. “We just went for a walk.”

Tracey’s eyebrows shot up.

“What, the both of you?” she said, looking between Cass and Violet. “Together?”

“Er, yes?”

“And without me?”

“You were asleep,” Violet said, a bit awkwardly. “It was really early, Tracey.”

“I suppose it must have been,” Tracey replied. It was obvious that she was miffed, but pretty soon they were chatting normally over breakfast, waiting for the rest of the school to trickle in. 

Every time they doors of the Great Hall opened, Violet looked up expecting to see her brother — but Harry never showed for breakfast, or for any meal after that. She saw no sign of him as she spent the day wandering the halls with her friends. It was as though he were in hiding, and there was no small question as to why: Everywhere they went, people stopped them to congratulate Cass and ask him how it felt to be chosen as Hogwarts’  _ true _ champion. He would flush and try to stammer out that he wasn’t the ‘true’ anything, but nobody wanted to hear it. When Violet was recognized, all she was met with was cold stares and derisive comments. In near tears by the end of the day, Violet almost wished she’d stayed in bed.

 

If she thought that matters would improve once everyone got used to the idea of Harry being champion, the following day proved just how wrong she was. Harry could no longer avoid the rest of the school once they were back at lessons — and it was clear, from the whispers in the halls and the outright cheers of congratulations, that everyone thought Harry had entered himself for the tournament. While the Slytherins were particularly unimpressed, the other Houses seemed to be in a state of conflict.

Plenty of people were being vocal in their support of Cassius. Apparently he was more popular than Violet had first realized, fairly well-liked, and respected for his hard work in his classes. All the makings of a champion — but he was still a Slytherin. And there were also plenty of people who would rather have an illegal, underage, reluctant school champion than a Slytherin one.

Violet would have been looking forward to Care of Magical Creatures under normal circumstances, seeing Hagrid and her brother at the same time, but the class was shared with the rest of the Gryffindors as well — and all of them already had their minds made up about which champion they’d be supporting.

The Gryffindors were already waiting when the Slytherins arrived at Hagrid’s cabin. Before Violet could even open her mouth in greeting, Draco Malfoy had already opened his.

“Ah, look, boys, it’s the false champion,” he said loudly to Crabbe and Goyle, the moment Harry was in earshot. “Got your autograph books? Better get a signature now, because I doubt he’s going to be around much longer . . . Half the Triwizard champions have died . . . how long d’you reckon you’re going to last, Potter? Ten minutes into the first task’s my bet.”

Crabbe and Goyle guffawed sycophantically. Violet was rolling up her sleeves, ready to cross the yard and hex Malfoy’s mouth shut, but was held back by a frantic Tracey just in time. Hagrid had emerged from the back of his cabin balancing a teetering tower of crates, each containing a very large Blast-Ended Skrewt. To the class’s horror, Hagrid proceeded to explain that the reason the skrewts had been killing one another was an excess of pent-up energy, and that the solution would be for each student to fix a leash on a skrewt and take it for a short walk. The only good thing about this plan was that it distracted Malfoy completely.

“Take this thing for a walk?” he repeated in disgust, staring into one of the boxes. “And where exactly are we supposed to fix the leash? Around the sting, the blasting end or the sucker?”

“Roun’ the middle,” said Hagrid, demonstrating. “Er — yeh might want her put on yer dragon-hide gloves, jus’ as an extra precaution, like. Harry — you come here an’ help me with this big one . . .”

It was obvious that Hagrid’s real intention was to get Harry away from the rest of the class to speak to him, and Violet was desperate to join them.

“Oh, please don’t leave me alone with this thing,” Tracey pleaded as they gingerly looped the rope harness around the middle of the foul creature in front of them. No longer shell-less and colourless, they had developed a kind of thick, grayish, shiny armor. They looked like a cross between giant scorpions and elongated crabs — but still without recognizable heads or eyes. They had become immensely strong and very hard to control.

“I  _ told _ you we should have stomped on them when they were small,” Tracey grunted, struggling to keep hold of the tether as the skrewt tugged and scuttled its way across the lawn. Violet, also holding onto the rope from directly behind the skrewt, was inclined to agree. Every now and then, with an alarming  _ bang, _ one of the skrewts’s ends would explode, causing it to shoot forward several yards, yanking its unfortunate handlers off their feet and dragging them along on their stomachs until they could get back on their feet. The front of Violet’s robes were already covered with grass and mud.

“We can still try,” she said through gritted teeth, “but now I think they might be able to stomp back.”

When the skrewts were finally wrangled back into their crates at the end of class, Violet was finally able to make her way to Harry’s side and ask him how he was feeling.

“Fine,” he said shortly, rubbing at the palms of his rope-burned hands. “Just peachy.”

“I know you didn’t put your name in the goblet,” Violet said quickly, struggling to keep up with Harry’s brisk stride; he made no attempt to slow down for her. “Because I know you would have told me if you had —”

“Mind telling Ron that?” Harry snapped.

“Ron? Why would I need to tell Ron anything, he’s  _ your _ friend.”

“Funny thing, I thought that, too.”

“What? Harry, what’s that supposed to mean? Did something —”

But the scowl on Harry’s face made clear that he didn’t want to talk about it. For the first time Violet looked around and realized that neither Ron or Hermione was walking beside them. They were both up ahead, walking separately up to the castle. Harry didn’t slow his stubborn stride even as Violet came to a halt, walking straight past her and leaving her alone on the grounds. She stood there, staring worriedly at her brother’s retreating back until Tracey caught up.

“Everything alright?” Tracey asked, looking between Violet and Harry. “He didn’t look too happy today, did he?”

“Something’s up with him and Ron,” Violet muttered. “I just wish he’d talk to me . . .”

She looped her arm with Tracey’s, and the two of them followed the rest of the class into the castle.


	14. Testing the Bonds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, apologies for the super long gap without updating. My ongoing struggle with chronic depression reared its ugly head once more and I went out of commission for a while. I'm doing my best to get back on track and return to my normal, functional state.
> 
> Thank you for your patience!
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own the Harry Potter series or any characters, settings, or materials associated with it. I do not and will not profit financially from this work of fanfiction, nor any of its related content. I do not take credit or gain any profit for any of the content owned and produced by J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, and Scholastic.

The next few days passed without much trouble — for Violet, at least. Everywhere she went people were still talking about Harry and the tournament, and everywhere Cassius went people would crowd around him to shake his hand, ask him if he was nervous, what his plans were for dealing with the other champions. Most annoyingly, there was a crowd of sixth and seventh year girls that had taken to hanging around Cass and following him around the castle between classes. They giggled at everything he said, even if it wasn’t meant to be funny, and kept trying to push Violet and Tracey out of their usual seats at mealtimes. Cass wasn’t doing very much to make them go away, either.

“They aren’t  _ that _ bad,” he said with a frown, after Tracey compared the girls to a swarm of nattering wasps, “and none of them have stung me yet, either.”

“Just you wait, because they’re certainly stinging at  _ me,” _ Tracey said. Under her breath so that only Violet could hear, she added, “None of them gave a whit about him  _ before _ he was named champion.”

Meanwhile, every time she caught sight of Harry, Violet was struck by just how alone he was. Whatever was happening with Ron had the pair of them avoiding each other, and poor Hermione was stuck flitting in between the arguing pair trying to spend time with them both. Harry had no crowds of adoring fans and no trail of giggling girls following behind him. Every time Violet saw her brother he just looked angry and tired and alone. 

She didn’t even get another chance to approach him until Friday when their other shared class, Double Potions, came around. But there would be no time to talk there, either — Professor Snape and the rest of the Slytherins all seemed determine to punish Harry as much as possible for becoming school champion and taking attention away from Cassius.

Violet had waited around after lunch to catch up with Harry, and she joined him and Hermione in heading down the dungeons. The rest of the Slytherin class was already waiting outside. Each and every one of them, with the exception of a very furious looking Tracey, was wearing a large badge on the front of their robes. For one wild moment Violet thought they were S.P.E.W. badges — then she saw that they all bore the same message, in luminous red letters that burned brightly in the dimly little underground passage:

 

SUPPORT **CASSIUS WARRINGTON** —

THE  **REAL** HOGWARTS CHAMPION!

 

“Like them, Potter?” said Malfoy loudly as Harry approached. “And this isn’t all they do — look!”

He pressed the badge into his chest, and the message upon it vanished, to be replaced by another one, which glowed green:

 

**POTTER STINKS**

 

The Slytherins howled with laughter. Each of them pressed their badges too, until the message  _ POTTER STINKS _ was shining brightly all around Harry, whose face and neck had gone very red. Tracey hurriedly pushed her way over to Violet’s side.

“I told them to take them off,” she whispered angrily, “but even Millie won’t stop, they think they’re all so clever —”

“Oh _very_ funny,” Hermione said sarcastically to Pansy Parkinson, who was laughing harder than anyone else, “really _witty.”_

“Want one, Granger?” said Malfoy, holding out a badge to Hermione. “I’ve got loads. But don’t touch my hand, now. I’ve just washed it, you see: don’t want a Mudblood sliming it up.”

There was a sudden flurry of motion as Harry and about half the Gryffindors all went for their wands. Malfoy’s wand was out, too, and he and Harry both had them pointed straight at each other. People all around them scrambled out of the way, backing down the corridor.

“Harry!” Hermione said warningly.

“Go on, then, Potter,” Malfoy said quietly, drawing out his own wand. “Moody’s not here to look after you now — do it, if you’ve got the guts —”

Violet saw a familiar glint in Harry’s eyes and quickly stepped between the pair of them. Malfoy grinned, his wand now aimed squarely at her nose.

“Oh I forgot, Potter needs his sister to win his fights for him,” he said nastily. “Are you going to win him the Triwizard Tournament, too?”

“Get out of the way, Violet,” Harry said from behind her, his voice shaking with anger. Violet didn’t budge.

“I’ll take one of those badges, Malfoy,” she said loudly. Malfoy blinked in surprise.

“What?”

Quick as a flash, Violet reached out with her right hand and yanked the glowing badge off the front of his robes. With her left hand, she slapped Malfoy across the face.

“Stay away from my brother,” Violet said. She pinned the badge neatly to her own robes and examined it. “And I think this looks better on me, actually.”

“How dare you!” Malfoy shrieked, clutching his reddened cheek. “How dare you touch me, you b—”

“And what is all this noise about?” said a soft, deadly voice.

Snape had arrived. Malfoy’s gang clamored to give their explanations; Snape pointed a finger at Malfoy and said, “Explain.”

“Potter attacked me, sir —”

“Which Potter?” Snape said, turning to look at the twins.

“I did,” they both said at once. Harry was still clutching his wand. Snape raised an eyebrow and looked back to Malfoy.

_ “Which?” _

_ “She _ did,” Pansy hissed, pointing at Violet. “She hit him, right in the face with her hands, like an  _ animal.” _

Malfoy reluctantly allowed Pansy to pull his hand away from his face, showing off the bright red hand print Violet had left there. Snape slowly turned to face Violet.

“Is this true, Miss Potter?”

“I did it,” Harry said loudly, before Violet could even open her mouth. “She didn’t touch him, I’m the one who —”

“No, I did it,” Violet said, louder still, and Harry nudged her angrily. Snape’s black eyes were boring into her, but Violet held her ground and stared right back. With a confidence she did not feel, she said, “I’m the one who hit Malfoy, sir. He called Hermione a Mudblood.”

Professor Snape looked swiftly back at Malfoy. Surprisingly, there was a flash of annoyance, perhaps even anger across his pale face.

“Twenty points from Slytherin,” Snape said sharply to Malfoy, making the rest of the House groan, “and detention, Miss Potter, for fighting. Inside, all of you.”

Malfoy slunk past Snape into the classroom and slammed his bag down on the table. The Gryffindors were all looking shell-shocked; it wasn’t often that Snape took points from his own House, and never so many at once. Violet earned a few glares from her fellow Slytherins, but held her head high as she sat down beside her brother and Hermione.

“You should have let me taken it,” Harry whispered to her as they settled into their seats. “Snape would’ve been happy to blame me, no matter what Parkinson said —”

“You’re school champion, Harry,” Violet whispered right back, ducking her head under the pretense of pulling out her books. “You’ve got to stay out of trouble. And I  _ am _ the one who hit him.”

“Thank you, Violet,” said Hermione. Violet flashed her a quick, genuine smile as Professor Snape took to the front of the room.

“Antidotes!” he said, looking around at them all, his cold black eyes glittering unpleasantly. “You should all have prepared your recipes now. I want you to brew them carefully, and then, we will be selecting someone on whom to test one . . .”

Snape’s eyes flicked toward their table and Violet had the uneasy feeling that he really  _ did _ mean to poison Harry . . . She wondered if there was a way to talk him out of it, or somehow make him spill the poison before he could make Harry drink it —

And then the dungeon door swung open and Violet stopped worrying about poisons completely, because Sirius Black was standing in the doorway.

He stepped confidently into the room, beaming at Harry and Violet.

“There’s my godson!” Sirius said loudly, striding over to where the twins sat and clapping a hand on Harry’s shoulder. The class, whose mouths had been hanging open in varying degrees of shock and alarm, all burst into fervent and excited whispers. “Dumbledore told me I might you find you here, Harry.”

“Sirius, what are you doing here?” Harry said, gaping like the rest of them.

“Rescuing you from class,” said Sirius good-naturedly. “And I dare say you need to be rescued, if this is the sort they’ve got passing for teachers these days.”

He shot a feral, too-toothy grin toward the front of the class where Snape was standing.

Professor Snape’s face had gone from its usual pallor to a blotchy, very ugly shade of brick red. His lips were drawn back in a silent snarl and his eyes were plainly filled with loathing as they stared at Sirius Black; the two of them had been vicious enemies since childhood, and after the events of last year, and Sirius’ recent acquittal, neither of their feelings were likely to have changed.

“Get out of my classroom,” Snape snarled quietly. He had gone completely rigid, but his hands were shaking as they balled into fists as his sides. 

“More than happy to,” said Sirius, patting Harry on the shoulder once more. “C’mon, Harry, get your things —”

“Potter has another hour of Potions to complete,” Snape spat, “he will be going nowhere.”

Harry, who had been rising eagerly out of his seat to go with Sirius, now flopped uncertainly back into it. Sirius’ eyes flashed coldly as he rounded on Snape.

“Well I say he’s coming with me, Snape — Harry, get your things. We’re going upstairs now.”

“Potter, do not leave that chair!” Snape shouted.

Harry, once again, fell heavily back into his seat. All eyes in the classroom were now on Snape and Sirius as both dark-eyed men stared each other down. Sirius was taller, finely dressed, and inarguably more handsome, even though he still bore the gauntness of his time in Azkaban — but this was the dungeon classroom, and Snape’s domain. Never before had he looked so menacing as did now in his billowing black robes, standing beside his large desk with rage etched deeply into his harsh features. 

Sirius took a step forward. It looked as though he was itching to go for his wand.

There was knock from the doorway. All eyes swiveled toward the back of the class as little Colin Creevey stepped timidly into the room, smiling and oblivious to the tension around him. He walked straight past Sirius and stopped in front of Snape.

“Yes?” said Snape through clenched teeth.

“Please, sir, I’m supposed to take Harry Potter upstairs.”

If Violet had thought the look on Snape’s face couldn’t be any more terrible, she was sorely mistaken. His features twisted as he stood there, yellowed teeth gnashing as he stared down his long nose at Colin.

_ “Fine,” _ Snape hissed at last, little more than a whisper. “Take him, and get out of my sight.”

“Nothing would make me happier than not having to look at you anymore,” said Sirius nastily. He looked back to Harry and grinned. “Coming?”

Harry practically leapt out his seat in his eagerness to join Sirius. Violet, looking anxiously between them, got a fond pat on the shoulder from Sirius as well.

“Don’t worry, Violet, I’m just borrowing him for a bit,” he said warmly. “Ludo Bagman’s upstairs with Dumbledore, they’re bringing all the champions up to have their photographs taken. Why don’t you come join us after class is out? We’ll have a little dinner in Moony’s office, hm?”

Without so much as a backwards glance at Professor Snape, but sparing a jaunty wave for the rest of the staring class, Sirius led Harry and Colin Creevey out of the classroom and shut the door behind them with a snap.

A tense, dangerous silence hung in the air.

People were looking back and forth between Violet and Professor Snape, as though they didn’t know which person would be more interesting to stare at. Violet, who hated to be the subject of stares anyways, ducked her head and tried to disappear into the collar of her robes. Snape presented a far more compelling subject.

His face was still red and blotchy, and his hands kept clenching and unclenching at his sides, as though he were itching to reach out and strangle the first student who dared to ask him what that was all about.

The class was extremely quiet and well behaved for the rest of the lesson; even the most minor infraction was seized upon by Professor Snape, the perpetrator forced to bear the brunt of his misplaced anger. Points were taken for things like sneezing too loudly, taking too many notes, clinking the stirring spoon against the cauldron too many times, and in Malfoy’s case, fiddling with his flashing badge too often. He must have replaced the one Violet took off him with another, and was determined to make it stay on the  _ POTTER STINKS _ message.

With Harry being absent, it was poor Neville Longbottom who was chosen to test the effectiveness of his antidote. Looking very green and nervous, Neville slowly made his way too the front of the class and presented Professor Snape with a vial of his potion; it was pale blue, and close enough to the proper consistency that Violet wasn’t  _ too _ worried about him. But it was still a horrible sight — Snape produced a small metal goblet from his robes and poured a measure of clear, innocuous looking liquid into it before pushing it into Neville’s trembling hands. Looking like he might die of a heart attack before the poison even reached his lips, Neville squeezed his eyes shut and drained the goblet.

For a moment all he did was stand there. He looked around, blinking in surprise that he hadn’t dropped dead straight away — and then a shock of purple crept up the side of his throat and he began to cough.

Professor Snape handed Neville his vial of antidote, which he very nearly dropped while trying to uncork, and he hurried swallowed the whole concoction, sputtering painfully as the purple blotch began to spread across his throat. Snape pulled out a pocketwatch and timed how long it took for the antidote to take effect. It took a full, agonizing minute for Neville to begin breathing normally again, and another three minutes for the color of his skin to go back to normal. 

“Your unicorn horn was not crushed finely enough, Longbottom,” Snape said as Neville staggered back to his seat, still looking quite ill. “The rest of you — bring your antidotes up to my desk, then gather your things and get out. We’ll find out how many of you have failed by next week. Dismissed.”

In little groups, everyone brought a sample of their potion up to the little racks sitting on Snape’s desk. Murmurs were already breaking out about what had happened at the beginning of the class but only well out of Snape’s earshot. Violet was certain his showdown with Sirius Black would be all over the school by the dinnertime.

Violet had just finished gathering her things, ready to follow Tracey out the door, when Professor Snape called her back.

“Yes, sir?” she said nervously, approaching the desk again. Snape was meticulously straightening the rows of jumbled vials that had been left for him. 

“Your detention will be tonight at seven,” he informed her. “Come to my office straight after dinner. If you’re late, I’ll have you serving it with Mr. Filch instead, understood?”

“Understood, sir,” Violet said sheepishly. She turned to go.

“Potter,” Snape called sharply, and Violet whipped back around.

“Sir?”

“Why are you wearing that ridiculous thing?”

His eyes were on the front of her robes. Violet looked down at herself, and at the glowing green badge which still prominently displayed the words  _ POTTER STINKS, _ and felt her face go red.

“Oh — er, it matches my eyes.”

Snape’s eyes widened momentarily, then narrowed to a dangerous squint.

“Seven  _ sharp, _ Potter,” he said tersely, and waved her away. Violet practically sprinted from the classroom, her face burning.  _ It matches my eyes? _ Of all the silly, stupid things to say —

 

Professor Lupin was not in his office when Violet arrived. She knocked, several times, at increasingly louder volumes, but when there was no answer she resigned herself to sitting crosslegged on the floor in the corridor outside and leafing through her History of Magic homework. When Professor Lupin did show up, he nearly tripped over her.

“Violet!” he said, staggering to a halt. “What on earth are you doing out here?”

“Sorry — I knocked, but you weren’t in —” Violet hastily stowed her books away and took Lupin’s offered hand. He pulled her easily to her feet.

“Yes, I had some tidying up to do after my last lesson. My sixth years got a little overexcited during their debate about the status of hags . . .” He shook his head, smiling even though he looked quite frazzled. “Here, let’s go inside. And for the record, Violet, you’re welcome in my office at any time, even if I’m not in it. I know how difficult it can be to find some peace and quiet in the castle at times.” He held the door open and let Violet enter first. As she did, she saw his eyes drop to the badge on her chest.

“I’ve been confiscating those all day, you know,” Lupin said, gently closing the door behind himself, “on the grounds of bullying. But as it’s  _ you _ wearing one, I admit I’m at a bit of a loss. Please don’t tell you actually bought that?”

“I didn’t,” Violet said cheerily. “I nicked it off Malfoy.”

“As your teacher, I am appalled at your behavior,” Lupin said, mock sternly, “but as your godfather I am very proud. Give me just a moment to put these away and then we can talk.”

Violet plopped down in front of Lupin’s desk and watched as he produced a thick stack of parchment from his battered brown briefcase, tapped them on the table to even them out, then stowed them away in a drawer, which he opened and closed with a small key.

“Essays,” he said by way of explanation, closing the briefcase and tucking it away as well. “I need to figure out a better filing system, I’m afraid. There, now —” He settled himself behind the desk, clasped his hands professionally, and said with a smile, “What can I do for you, Miss Potter?”

“Oh, erm . . . actually I thought Harry and Sirius would be here by now,” Violet said.

“Sirius?” Lupin repeated. There was a note of confusion in his voice. “Why would Sirius be here?”

“Well, he said we’d be having dinner in here tonight, just the four of us . . .”

Lupin was frowning now. “This is the first I’m hearing of it . . . when exactly did Sirius tell you this?”

“Er, two hours ago?” Violet said, her face heating up. She was starting to feel foolish. Had she misheard? Had Sirius taken Harry off on some little adventure for just the two of them, and lied to keep her from feeling left out? “He pulled Harry out of Potions to go take photos with Mr. Bagman, I think?”

Comprehension dawned on Professor Lupin’s prematurely lined face. He closed his eyes.

“Oh, no.”

Violet startled as Lupin got abruptly to his feet. “You said he’s with Harry now?” he asked, shuffling around the desk. “And there’ll be cameras, of course —  _ damn _ him —”

Professor Lupin yanked open the door to his office, clearly ready to storm out of it, but came to yet another abrupt halt to avoid running into someone; this time it was Harry.

“Harry,” Lupin said, sounding very relieved. Harry blinked up at him in surprise. He still had his hand raised, poised to knock. He dropped it quickly.

“Er, hello, sir . . . Is something the matter?”

“I can’t  _ believe _ you,” said Professor Lupin angrily, and Violet feared it was directed at Harry — but then Sirius laughed and pushed his way into the office, and she understood.

“Good to see you, too, Remus,” Sirius said casually. He glanced interestedly around the office, before his eyes landed on Violet and a wide grin spread across his face. “Violet! Good, you made it — sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to just whisk Harry away and leave you there — Snivellus didn’t give you too much trouble, did he?”

“I — who?”

“He means Professor Snape,” said Lupin firmly, standing in front of the door with his arms crossed. “Sirius, I wish you wouldn’t call him that.”

“You never objected to it when we were in school,” Sirius said, sounding put out. 

Lupin shook his head. “Well, we’re not in school any longer. Severus is a grown man, and so are we. I think it’s about time we all started being a little more respectful toward one another.” When Sirius opened his mouth, looking about to protest, Lupin added loudly, “If only to set a better example for those who look up to us.”

He looked pointedly at Harry and Violet. Sirius shut his mouth and sighed.

“Fine, fine . . . Harry, come and sit down. I know you must be starving after all of that hard work.”

With a wave of his wand — a handsome light brown wood, newly purchased from Ollivander’s — Sirius conjured a whole baked chicken, a platter of roasted potatoes, a dish of rich-looking stew, a little plate of steaming bread rolls, and a pitcher of ice cold pumpkin juice, right on top of Professor Lupin’s desk.

“What did you have to do?” Violet asked eagerly as her brother took the seat beside her. Professor Lupin wordlessly conjured another chair for Sirius, and the four of them tucked in to eat. Harry’s cheeks went a bit red.

“He’s joking,” he muttered. “All we had to do was stand around and have our pictures taken . . . and then that Skeeter woman wanted interviews, but . . .”

Harry glanced sidelong at Sirius, who was nonchalantly buttering a roll.

“But what?” said Lupin mildly, now also looking at Sirius. Harry dropped his gaze guiltily.

“But, I, er . . . didn’t get a chance to speak with her,” he said, then quickly went about stuffing his face with potatoes so that he couldn’t talk anymore.

“I can’t believe Dumbledore allowed that harpy into the school,” Sirius said, “especially after that piece she wrote about him over the summer. You should’ve seen the way she was eyeing Harry, like he was a piece of meat she wanted to sink her talons into.”

“I’m sure Dumbledore has his reasons,” Lupin said mildly. “Much like he had his reasons for letting  _ you _ into the school, Sirius.”

_ “I _ have every right to be here!” Sirius said, affronted, around a mouthful of bread. “I’m family! They’d have a tough time trying to keep me out.”

“As I said, Dumbledore had his reasons . . .”

Lupin endured Sirius’ glare, eyes twinkling, and the pair of them lapsed into silence as they enjoyed their food. It felt very odd to eat like this, away from the noise and bustle of the Great Hall, but it wasn’t uncomfortable at all. Violet and Harry were able to chat between bites without fear of reproach, and both Lupin and Sirius were more than happy to pass food in their direction and encourage them to take more portions. Violet could almost imagine, in another life, that this might be what it’s like to enjoy a family meal.

But she doubted very much whether typical family meals were interspersed with talk of facing life and death competitions.

“The challenges themselves aren’t what I’m worried about,” Sirius said gravely, pausing with a spoonful of stew in the air. He was looking sidelong at Professor Lupin, as though waiting for him to interrupt. “There are other dangers that I need to warn you about.”

“What?” said Harry, looking as though he were preparing to take a bullet.

“Karkaroff,” said Sirius. He looked again at Lupin, who was steely-eyed but silent. “Harry, he was a Death Eater. You two know what Death Eaters are, don’t you?”

“Voldemort’s followers,” Violet said at once. Sirius nodded.

“He was caught, he was in Azkaban with me, but he got released. I’d bet everything that’s why Dumbledore wanted an Auror at Hogwarts this year — to keep an eye on him. Moody is the one who caught Karkaroff and put him in Azkaban in the first place.”

“Karkaroff got released?” Harry said slowly, looking just as stunned as Violet felt. “Why did they release him?”

“He did a deal with the Ministry of Magic,” said Sirius bitterly. “He said he’d seen the error of his ways, and then he named names . . . he put a load of people into Azkaban in his place . . . He’s not very popular in there, I can tell you. And since he got out, from what I can tell, he’s been teaching the Dark Arts to every student who passes through that school of his.”

“Though we can’t be sure of that,” Lupin added swiftly. “There was plenty of opposition to his appointment as Headmaster of Durmstrang, and I’m sure he’s under close watch by the parents and board of governors.”

“But watch out for the Durmstrang champion as well,” said Sirius.

“Okay,” said Harry slowly. “But . . . are you saying Karkaroff put my name in the goblet? Because if he did, he’s a really good actor. He seemed furious about it. He wanted to stop me from competing.”

“We know he’s a good actor,” said Sirius, “because he convinced the Ministry of Magic to set him free, didn’t he? Now, I’ve been keeping an eye on the  _ Daily Prophet, _ Harry, and reading between the lines of that Skeeter woman’s article last month. Moody was attacked the night before he started at Hogwarts. Yes, I know she says it was another false alarm,” Sirius said hastily, seeing Harry about to speak, “but I don’t think so, somehow. I think someone tried to stop him from getting to Hogwarts. I think someone knew their job would be a lot more difficult with him around. And no one’s going to look into it too closely; Mad-Eye’s heard intruders a bit too often. But that doesn’t mean he can’t still spot the real thing. Moody was the best Auror the Ministry ever had.”

“So what are you saying?” said Violet. “That Karkaroff is the one trying to kill Harry? But — why?”

“There’s no evidence of that, Violet,” Lupin said quickly, reaching across the table to put a hand on her arm. “Karkaroff is the most obvious suspect, yes, but that doesn’t mean he’s solely responsible.”

“So there could be more than one person out to get me?” said Harry.

Sirius hesitated.

“I’ve been hearing some very strange things,” he said slowly. “The Death Eaters seem to be a bit more active than usual lately. They showed themselves at the Quidditch World Cup, didn’t they? Someone set off the Dark Mark . . . and then — did you hear about that Ministry of Magic witch who’s gone missing?”

“Bertha Jorkins?” said Violet.

“Exactly . . . she disappeared in Albania, and there’s definitely where —”

“Sirius,” Lupin interrupted, “I think that’s far enough.”

“What?” said Harry, looking between the two adults. “That’s definitely where what?”

Sirius grimaced, locked eyes with Lupin, and then said very quickly, “That’s the last place Voldemort was rumoured to be.”

_ “Sirius!” _

“They have a right to know, Remus, these are their very lives at stake!”

“They also have a right to — to —” Lupin scrubbed his hands over his face in frustration. “They have a right to be  _ fourteen, _ and not have to be looking over their shoulders every moment of the day.”

“We’re not scared!” said Harry hotly. “Just because we’re fourteen doesn’t mean —”

“It means that this conversation has gone far enough for tonight,” Professor Lupin said firmly. “Harry, Violet, I’m sorry, but I’m putting my foot down. We can talk about something else if you like, though it is getting a bit late, and I expect Sirius will need to be going soon —”

“Wait, what time is it?” Violet asked, suddenly alarmed. Lupin pulled out his battered silver pocket watch and showed her the time. It was nearly seven. “Oh  _ no, _ I’ve got to go —”

“Where?” Sirius asked.

“I’ve got detention,” Violet said, hastily getting to her feet. Sirius’ eyebrows shot up.

_ “You’ve _ got detention? What for?”

“Er — well —”

“She hit Malfoy,” Harry said, with a note of pride in his voice. “And stole his badge, too.”

Sirius looked at Violet’s front and noticed, for the first time, the badge which still read  _ POTTER STINKS _ in bright green, glowing letters. He threw his head back and laughed.

“Serves the little bugger right, if he made something like that. Who’s your detention with? If it’s McGonagall, I have half a mind to go with you. It’d be nice to see her again, especially in detention . . . ahh, brings back memories . . .”

“It’s, erm, Professor Snape,” Violet mumbled quietly. “Unless I’m late, then it’ll be with Filch, he said . . .”

“Snape?” said Sirius, the smile vanishing from his face. “In that case I’m  _ definitely _ coming with you.”

“No, no, it’s alright!” Violet said quickly as he started getting up. “Really, it’s fine, Sirius, he’s not — it’s not that bad —”

“Is this a real detention, Violet, or another one of your little lessons?” Professor Lupin asked mildly, and Violet’s heart sank. Harry looked around at her.

“Lessons? What lessons?”

Some of the panic must have shown on Violet face, because Lupin coughed quietly and said, “Sorry, nevermind that. Violet, go on ahead, we can speak later about —”

“Is Snape giving you lessons or something?” Harry blurted, staring at her. 

“Uh . . .” Violet cringed. “Yeah?”

“For how long?”

“A . . . a while . . .”

“What sort of lessons?” Sirius demanded suspiciously. “What’s that slimeball been teaching you, Violet?”

“It’s just potions!” she said quickly, which was the truth. “Just, like, advanced potions and how to handle ingredients and the like.”

“Since when, though?” demanded Harry.

Violet hesitated.

“Second year?”

A look of deepest betrayal came over Harry’s face.

“And you never told me?” he said angrily. “All this time he’s been giving you detentions, they were actually  _ lessons?” _

“It’s not a big deal, Harry, it’s just —”

“Of course it’s a big deal!” Harry countered, eyes flashing. “You’ve been in detention with him  _ loads _ of times, and I thought it was — I thought he —”

Harry seemed to be chewing on his words, biting them back the way he always had around the Dursleys. But the Dursleys weren’t here, and things were different at home, now. He didn’t have to swallow his anger back like he did before.

“I thought he hated you as much as he hates me,” he said bitterly. “But I guess you’re just another one of his Slytherin favourites, aren’t you?”

“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you, Harry,” Violet snapped, suddenly annoyed, “because I knew you’d take it personally.”

“Bit hard not to,” Harry said. “Especially seeing as you’re the one getting top marks in Potions, thanks to his help.”

“Hey, I’ve always been good at Potions, that’s why Professor Snape took me aside in the first place —”

“Took you under his wing, did he?” Harry sneered, with a hard, hurt set to his jaw. “One of those big, giant bat wings? Wonder what that must be like.”

Violet opened her mouth to point out that Harry had had  _ plenty _ of favouritism shown to him in the past — most notably by Professor McGonagall, who recruited him for the Gryffindor Quidditch team when he was just a first year — but before she could add more fuel to the fire there was a great, distant tolling of a bell. Seven o’clock had arrived, and she was late.

“May I be excused, sir?” she said sharply to Professor Lupin, who nodded, looking apologetic.

“Yes, of course, Violet. You can tell Severus it was my fault for keeping you —”

But Violet was already out the door, running as fast as her legs would carry her to the dungeons. Getting through the Great Hall was a trial of itself; the great wooden doors were wide open, with students from all schools pouring through it into the entryway. Violet slipped nimbly through the crowd, squeezing through tightly packed groups of friends with ease. She heard someone calling her name from the crowd but didn’t bother looking back. Cass and Tracey could wait.  _ They _ couldn’t make her scrub toilets for three hours, no matter how angry they got with her.

Shoes pounding on the cold stone floor, Violet took the steps into the dungeons two at a time and practically flew down the corridor. The door to the Potions classroom banged loudly against the wall as she flung it open and threw herself across the threshold.

“I’m sorry I’m late, sir, I was with Prof — Professor Lupin —”

Violet stood stock still, staring.

Professor Snape was standing at the front of the classroom in front of the blackboard, which was half-full of his cramped, angled lettering. And beside him stood Professor Karkaroff.

Both men were staring back at Violet in alarm, clearly surprised by her noisy entrance. Karkaroff looked as though he’d gone for his wand. His hand dropped quickly back to his side. Violet couldn’t stop staring at him.

“Potter,” Snape said, and her eyes flicked to him instead. “Sit down. Your detention started three minutes ago.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Violet said, swallowing nervously.

It took a great deal of willpower to make herself walk further into the classroom. Every step she took toward her desk felt like lifting a ton of bricks, dragging them behind her as she walked. Professor Karkaroff was watching her out of the corner of his eye, just like she was watching him, though he had turned back to face Professor Snape. When Violet finally reached her chair and sat down, she heard him say, “We will speak again, Severus, when there is more time. It is good to see you again, old friend.”

“Another time, Igor,” Snape said, his expression unreadable. He stiffened when Karkaroff patted him on the shoulder, smiling, and his black eyes followed carefully as the other man left the room. Violet held her breath as the Durmstrang headmaster passed by her desk, but he didn’t spare her so much as a glance. She didn’t breathe until the door clicked shut behind him.

There was a tension in the air as Professor Snape turned slowly to face Violet, who was suddenly feeling very small at her desk. She could hear Sirius’ voice echoing in her head, words he had told her only minutes ago.

_ He’s a Death Eater . . . You know what Death Eaters are, don’t you? _

“You’re late, Potter,” Professor Snape said sharply, making her jump. “And I thought I had specifically warned you  _ not _ to be.”

“I was with Professor Lupin,” Violet repeated quickly. And then, because she couldn’t help herself, “How do you and Professor Karkaroff know each other, sir?”

Snape’s eyes flashed coldly.

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business, Potter,” he said, in his most soft and dangerous voice. Violet shut her mouth and swallowed again. Snape, mercifully, took his eyes off her and turned around once more. “Now, seeing as you are incapable of following even the simplest of directions, I doubt you’d be able to keep up with the demands of this evening’s task, minimal though they are.”

Violet watched in dismay as Professor Snape began to erase the contents of the blackboard, which she could see now were the directions for the potion he’d planned to teach her to brew. Worse, once the board was clean, he began to write on it once more in larger, fewer words.

“I think it only fair that you’re set a task which you  _ are _ capable of completing,” he said coldly, stepping back from the board. The words  _ I will not strike my fellow students _ were plainly written, and there was an unpleasant smile on Professor Snape’s pale face. “Two hundred and fifty lines, Potter, on my desk by the end of the night. I expect them to be neat and legible, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Violet said mournfully, pulling out her parchment and quill.

It was shaping up to be a truly rotten night.


End file.
